man, patting his wife affectionately on the shoulder, 'nothing on earth can be more genuine than that ceremony was.'
And the volatile Lady Alicia snuggled closer to him.
The Adventures of Sherlaw Kombs
(With apologies to Dr. Conan Doyle, and his excellent book,
'A Study in Scarlet'.)
I dropped in on my friend, Sherlaw Kombs, to hear what he had to say about the Pegram mystery, as it had come to be called in the newspapers. I found him playing the violin with a look of sweet peace and serenity on his face, which I never noticed on the countenances of those within hearing distance. I knew this expression of seraphic calm indicated that Kombs had been deeply annoyed about something. Such, indeed, proved to be the case, for one of the morning papers had contained an article eulogising the alertness and general competence of Scotland Yard. So great was Sherlaw Kombs's contempt for Scotland Yard that he never would visit Scotland during his vacations, nor would he ever admit that a Scotchman was fit for anything but export.
He generously put away his violin, for he had a sincere liking for me, and greeted me with his usual kindness.
'I have come,' I began, plunging at once into the matter on my mind, 'to hear what you think of the great Pegram mystery.'
'I haven't heard of it,' he said quietly, just as if all London were not talking of that very thing. Kombs was curiously ignorant on some subjects, and abnormally learned on others. I found, for instance, that political discussion with him was impossible, because he did not know who Salisbury and Gladstone were. This made his friendship a great boon.
'The Pegram mystery has baffled even Gregory, of Scotland Yard.'
'I can well believe it,' said my friend, calmly. 'Perpetual motion, or squaring the circle, would baffle Gregory. He's an infant, is Gregory.'
This was one of the things I always liked about Kombs. There was no professional jealousy in him, such as characterises so many other men.
He filled his pipe, threw himself into his deep-seated armchair, placed his feet on the mantel, and clasped his hands behind his head.
'Tell me about it,' he said simply.
'Old Barrie Kipson,' I began, 'was a stockbroker in the City. He lived in Pegram, and it was his custom to—'
'COME IN!' shouted Kombs, without changing his position, but with a suddenness that startled me. I had heard no knock.
'Excuse me,' said my friend, laughing, 'my invitation to enter was a trifle premature. I was really so interested in your recital that I spoke before I thought, which a detective should never do. The fact is, a man will be here in a moment who will tell me all about this crime, and so you will be spared further effort in that line.'
'Ah, you have an appointment. In that case I will not intrude,' I said, rising.
'Sit down; I have no appointment. I did not know until I spoke that he was coming.'
I gazed at him in amazement. Accustomed as I was to his extraordinary talents, the man was a perpetual surprise to me. He continued to smoke quietly, but evidently enjoyed my consternation.
'I see you are surprised. It is really too simple to talk about, but, from my position opposite the mirror, I can see the reflection of objects in the street. A man stopped, looked at one of my cards, and then glanced across the street. I recognised my card, because, as you know, they are all in scarlet. If, as you say, London is talking of this mystery, it naturally follows that he will talk of it, and the chances are he wished to consult with me upon it. Anyone can see that, besides there is always—Come in!
There was a rap at the door this time.
A stranger entered. Sherlaw Kombs did not change his lounging attitude.
'I wish to see Mr. Sherlaw Kombs, the detective,' said the stranger, coming within the range of the smoker's vision.
'This is Mr. Kombs,' I remarked at last, as my friend smoked quietly, and seemed half-asleep.
'Allow me to introduce myself,' continued the stranger, fumbling for a card.
'There is no need. You are a journalist,' said Kombs.
'Ah,' said the stranger, somewhat taken aback, 'you know me, then.'
'Never saw or heard of you in my life before.'
'Then how in the world—'
'Nothing simpler. You write for an evening paper. You have written an article slating the book of a friend. He will feel badly about it, and you will condole with him. He will never know who stabbed him unless I tell him.'
'The devil!' cried the journalist, sinking into a chair and mopping his brow, while his face became livid.
'Yes,' drawled Kombs, 'it is a devil of a shame that such things are done. But what would you? as we say in France.'
When the journalist had recovered his second wind he pulled himself together somewhat. 'Would you object to telling me how you know these particulars about a man you say you have never seen?'
'I rarely talk about these things,' said Kombs with great composure. 'But as the cultivation of the habit of observation may help you in your profession, and thus in a remote degree benefit me by making your paper less deadly dull, I will tell you. Your first and second fingers are smeared with ink, which shows that you write a great deal. This smeared class embraces two sub-classes, clerks or accountants, and journalists. Clerks have to be neat in their work. The ink smear is slight in their case. Your fingers are badly and carelessly smeared; therefore, you are a journalist. You have an evening paper in your pocket. Anyone might have any evening paper, but yours is a Special Edition, which will not be on the streets for half-an-hour yet. You must have obtained it before you left the office, and to do this you must be on the staff. A book notice is marked with a blue pencil. A journalist always despises every article in his own paper not written by himself; therefore, you wrote the article you have marked, and doubtless are about to send it to the author of the book referred to. Your paper makes a speciality of abusing all books not written by some member of its own staff. That the author is a friend of yours, I merely surmised. It is all a trivial example of ordinary observation.'
'Really, Mr. Kombs, you are the most wonderful man on earth. You are the equal of Gregory, by Jove, you are.'
A frown marred the brow of my friend as he placed his pipe on the sideboard and drew his self-cocking six-shooter.
'Do you mean to insult me, sir?'
'I do not—I—I assure you. You are fit to take charge of Scotland Yard tomorrow ——. I am in earnest, indeed I am, sir.'
'Then heaven help you,' cried Kombs, slowly raising his right arm.
I sprang between them.
'Don't shoot!' I cried. 'You will spoil the carpet. Besides, Sherlaw, don't you see the man means well. He actually thinks it is a compliment!'
'Perhaps
