By A. CO--N D--LE


I found Hemlock Jones in the old Brook Street lodgings, musing
before the fire. With the freedom of an old friend I at once threw
myself in my usual familiar attitude at his feet, and gently
caressed his boot. I was induced to do this for two reasons: one,
that it enabled me to get a good look at his bent, concentrated
face, and the other, that it seemed to indicate my reverence for
his superhuman insight. So absorbed was he even then, in tracking
some mysterious clue, that he did not seem to notice me. But
therein I was wrong--as I always was in my attempt to understand
that powerful intellect.

"It is raining," he said, without lifting his head.

"You have been out, then?" I said quickly.

"No. But I see that your umbrella is wet, and that your overcoat
has drops of water on it."

I sat aghast at his penetration. After a pause he said carelessly,
as if dismissing the subject: "Besides, I hear the rain on the
window. Listen."

I listened. I could scarcely credit my ears, but there was the
soft pattering of drops on the panes. It was evident there was no
deceiving this man!

"Have you been busy lately?" I asked, changing the subject. "What