reader know, or remotely suspect, what terrific struggles the
writer of a really good detective story had sustained, he would
regard the final product with a new wonder and respect, and read it
all over once more to find out how the troubles occurred. But he
will search in vain; there are no signs of them left; no, not so
much as a scar. The tale moves along as smoothly and inevitably as
oiled machinery; obviously, it could not have been arranged
otherwise than it is; and the wise reader is convinced that he
could have done the thing himself without half trying. At that,
the weary writer smiles a bitter smile; but it is one of the spurns
that patient merit of the unworthy takes. Nobody, except him who
has tried it, will ever know how hard it is to write a really good
detective story. The man or woman who can do it can also write a
good play (according to modern ideas of plays), and possesses force
of character, individuality, and mental ability. He or she must
combine the intuition of the artist with the talent of the master
mechanic, but will seldom be a poet, and will generally care more
for things and events than for fellow creatures. For, although the
story is often concerned with righting some wrong, or avenging some
murder, yet it must be confessed that the author commonly succeeds
better in the measure of his ruthlessness in devising crimes and
giving his portraits of devils an extra touch of black. Mercy is
not his strong point, however he may abound in justice; and he will
not stickle at piling up the agony, if thereby he provides
opportunity for enhancing the picturesqueness and completeness of
the evil doer's due.

But this leads me to the admission that one charge, at least, does
lie against the door of the riddle-story writer; and that is, that
he is not sincere; he makes his mysteries backward, and knows the