hand reverently, and began in a joyous tone:
“First I should advertise, offering a reward. I should give the same information in handbills, distributed at the ‘pubs’ and the pastry-cooks. I should next visit the different pawnbrokers; I should give notice at the police station. I should examine the servants. I should thoroughly search the house and my own pockets. I speak relatively,” I added with a laugh, “of course I mean
your
own.”
He gravely made an entry of these details. “Perhaps,” I added, “you have already done this?”
“Perhaps,” he returned enigmatically. “Now, my dear friend,” he continued, putting the notebook in his pocket, and rising—“would you excuse me for a few moments? Make yourself perfectly at home until I return; there may be some things,” he added with a sweep of his hand towards his heterogeneously filled shelves, “that may interest you, and while away the time. There are pipes and tobacco in that corner and whiskey on the table.” And nodding to me with the same inscrutable face, he left the room. I was too well accustomed to his methods to think much of his unceremonious withdrawal, and made no doubt he was off to investigate some clue which had suddenly occurred to his active intelligence.
Left to myself, I cast a cursory glance over his shelves. There were a number of small glass jars, containing earthy substances labeled “Pavement and road sweepings,” from the principal thoroughfares and suburbs of London, with the sub-directions “For identifying foot tracks.” Therewere several other jars labeled “Fluff from omnibus and road-car seats,” “Cocoanut fibre and rope strands from mattings in public places,” “Cigarette stumps and match ends from floor of Palace Theatre, Row A, 1 to 50.” Everywhere were evidences of this wonderful man’s system and perspicacity.
I was thus engaged when I heard the slight creaking of a door, and I looked up as a stranger entered. He was a rough-looking man, with a shabby overcoat, a still more disreputable muffler round his throat, and a cap on his head. Considerably annoyed at his intrusion I turned upon him rather sharply, when, with a mumbled, growling apology for mistaking the room, he shuffled out again and closed the door. I followed him quickly to the landing and saw that he disappeared down the stairs.
With my mind full of the robbery, the incident made a singular impression on me. I knew my friend’s habits of hasty absences from his room in his moments of deep inspiration; it was only too probable that with his powerful intellect and magnificent perceptive genius concentrated on one subject, he should be careless of his own belongings, and, no doubt, even forget to take the ordinary precaution of locking up his drawers. I tried one or two and found I was right—although for some reason I was unable to open one to its fullest extent. The handles were sticky, as if someone had opened them with dirty fingers. Knowing Hemlock’s fastidious cleanliness, I resolved to inform him of this circumstance, but I forgot it, alas! until—but I am anticipating my story.
His absence was strangely prolonged. I at last seated myself by the fire, and lulled by warmth and the patter of the rain on the window, I fell asleep. I may have dreamt, for during my sleep I had a vague semi-consciousness as of hands being softly pressed on my pockets—no doubt induced by the story of the robbery. When I came fully to my senses, I found Hemlock Jones sitting on the other side of the hearth, his deeply concentrated gaze fixed on the fire.
“I found you so comfortably asleep that I could not bear to waken you,” he said with a smile.
I rubbed my eyes. “And what news?” I asked. “How have you succeeded?”
“Better than I expected,” he said, “and I think,” he added, tapping his note-book—“I owe much to
you
.”
Deeply gratified, I awaited more. But in vain. I ought to have remembered that in his moods Hemlock
“First I should advertise, offering a reward. I should give the same information in handbills, distributed at the ‘pubs’ and the pastry-cooks. I should next visit the different pawnbrokers; I should give notice at the police station. I should examine the servants. I should thoroughly search the house and my own pockets. I speak relatively,” I added with a laugh, “of course I mean
your
own.”
He gravely made an entry of these details. “Perhaps,” I added, “you have already done this?”
“Perhaps,” he returned enigmatically. “Now, my dear friend,” he continued, putting the notebook in his pocket, and rising—“would you excuse me for a few moments? Make yourself perfectly at home until I return; there may be some things,” he added with a sweep of his hand towards his heterogeneously filled shelves, “that may interest you, and while away the time. There are pipes and tobacco in that corner and whiskey on the table.” And nodding to me with the same inscrutable face, he left the room. I was too well accustomed to his methods to think much of his unceremonious withdrawal, and made no doubt he was off to investigate some clue which had suddenly occurred to his active intelligence.
Left to myself, I cast a cursory glance over his shelves. There were a number of small glass jars, containing earthy substances labeled “Pavement and road sweepings,” from the principal thoroughfares and suburbs of London, with the sub-directions “For identifying foot tracks.” Therewere several other jars labeled “Fluff from omnibus and road-car seats,” “Cocoanut fibre and rope strands from mattings in public places,” “Cigarette stumps and match ends from floor of Palace Theatre, Row A, 1 to 50.” Everywhere were evidences of this wonderful man’s system and perspicacity.
I was thus engaged when I heard the slight creaking of a door, and I looked up as a stranger entered. He was a rough-looking man, with a shabby overcoat, a still more disreputable muffler round his throat, and a cap on his head. Considerably annoyed at his intrusion I turned upon him rather sharply, when, with a mumbled, growling apology for mistaking the room, he shuffled out again and closed the door. I followed him quickly to the landing and saw that he disappeared down the stairs.
With my mind full of the robbery, the incident made a singular impression on me. I knew my friend’s habits of hasty absences from his room in his moments of deep inspiration; it was only too probable that with his powerful intellect and magnificent perceptive genius concentrated on one subject, he should be careless of his own belongings, and, no doubt, even forget to take the ordinary precaution of locking up his drawers. I tried one or two and found I was right—although for some reason I was unable to open one to its fullest extent. The handles were sticky, as if someone had opened them with dirty fingers. Knowing Hemlock’s fastidious cleanliness, I resolved to inform him of this circumstance, but I forgot it, alas! until—but I am anticipating my story.
His absence was strangely prolonged. I at last seated myself by the fire, and lulled by warmth and the patter of the rain on the window, I fell asleep. I may have dreamt, for during my sleep I had a vague semi-consciousness as of hands being softly pressed on my pockets—no doubt induced by the story of the robbery. When I came fully to my senses, I found Hemlock Jones sitting on the other side of the hearth, his deeply concentrated gaze fixed on the fire.
“I found you so comfortably asleep that I could not bear to waken you,” he said with a smile.
I rubbed my eyes. “And what news?” I asked. “How have you succeeded?”
“Better than I expected,” he said, “and I think,” he added, tapping his note-book—“I owe much to
you
.”
Deeply gratified, I awaited more. But in vain. I ought to have remembered that in his moods Hemlock
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