Madame de Staemer--"

"The Colonel's invalid cousin," added Harley, tonelessly.

"And her companion, Miss Beverley."

"Quite so. Nor must we forget the Spanish butler, and the Colonel
himself, whose acquaintance I am extremely anxious to renew."

"The whole thing is wildly bizarre, Harley."

"My dear Knox," he replied, stretching himself luxuriously in the long
lounge chair, "the most commonplace life hovers on the edge of the
bizarre. But those of us who overstep the border become preposterous in
the eyes of those who have never done so. This is not because the
unusual is necessarily the untrue, but because writers of fiction have
claimed the unusual as their particular province, and in doing so have
divorced it from fact in the public eye. Thus I, myself, am a myth, and
so are you, Knox!"

He raised his hand and pointed to the doorway communicating with the
office.

"We owe our mythological existence to that American genius whose
portrait hangs beside the Burmese cabinet and who indiscreetly created
the character of C. Auguste Dupin. The doings of this amateur
investigator were chronicled by an admirer, you may remember, since
when no private detective has been allowed to exist outside the pages
of fiction. My most trivial habits confirm my unreality.