LITMIR.BIZ

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scathless from the ordeal.

      'Have you brought the swag, Sir George?' asked the novelist, with some trace of anxiety in his voice.

      'Yes,' replied the great publisher; 'but before proceeding to the count would it not be wise to give orders that will insure our being left undisturbed?'

      'You are right,' replied Doyle, pressing an electric button.

      When the servant appeared he said: 'I am not at home to anyone. No matter who calls, or what excuse is given, you must permit none to approach this room.'

      When the servant had withdrawn, Doyle took the further precaution of thrusting in place one of the huge bolts which ornamented the massive oaken door studded with iron knobs. Sir George withdrew from the tail pocket of his dress coat two canvas bags, and, untying the strings, poured the rich red gold on the smooth table.

      'I think you will find that right,' he said; 'six thousand pounds in all.'

      The writer dragged his heavy chair nearer the table, and began to count the coins two by two, withdrawing each pair from the pile with his extended forefingers in the manner of one accustomed to deal with great treasure. For a time the silence was unbroken, save by the chink of gold, when suddenly a high-keyed voice outside penetrated even the stout oak of the huge door. The shrill exclamation seemed to touch a chord of remembrance in the mind of Sir George Newnes. Nervously he grasped the arms of his chair, sitting very bolt upright, muttering:—

      'Can it be he, of all persons, at this time, of all times?'

      Doyle glanced up with an expression of annoyance on his face, murmuring, to keep his memory green:—

      'A hundred and ten, a hundred and ten, a hundred and ten.'

      'Not at home?' cried the vibrant voice. 'Nonsense! Everybody is at home on Christmas Eve!'

      'You don't seem to be,' he heard the servant reply.

      'Me? Oh, I have no home, merely rooms in Baker Street. I must see your master, and at once.'

      'Master left in his motor car half an hour ago to attend the county ball, given tonight, at the Royal Huts Hotel, seven miles away,' answered the servant, with that glib mastery of fiction which unconsciously comes to those who are members, even in a humble capacity, of a household devoted to the production of imaginative art.

      'Nonsense, I say again,' came the strident voice. 'It is true that the tracks of an automobile are on the ground in front of your door, but if you will notice the markings of the puncture-proof belt, you will see that the automobile is returning and not departing. It went to the station before the last shower to bring back a visitor, and since its arrival there has been no rain. That suit of armour in the hall spattered with mud shows it to be the casing the visitor wore. The blazonry upon it of a pair of scissors above an open book resting upon a printing press, indicates that the wearer is first of all an editor; second, a publisher; and third, a printer. The only baronet in England whose occupation corresponds with this heraldic device is Sir George Newnes.'

      'You forget Sir Alfred Harmsworth,' said the servant, whose hand held a copy of Answers.

      If the insistent visitor was taken aback by this unlooked-for rejoinder, his manner showed no trace of embarrassment, and he went on unabashed.

      'As the last shower began at ten minutes to six, Sir George must have arrived at Haslemere station on the 6.19 from Waterloo. He has had dinner, and at this moment is sitting comfortably with Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, doubtless in the front room, which I see is so brilliantly lighted. Now if you will kindly take in my card—'

      'But I tell you,' persisted the perplexed servant, 'that the master left in his motor car for the county ball at the Royal—'

      'Oh, I know, I know. There stands his suit of armour, too, newly blackleaded, whose coat of arms is a couchant typewriter on an automobile rampant.'

      'Great heavens!' cried Sir George, his eyes brightening with the light of unholy desire, 'you have material enough there, Doyle, for a story in our January number. What do you say?'

      A deep frown marred the smoothness of the novelist's brow.

      'I say,' he replied sternly, 'that this man has been sending threatening letters to me. I have had enough of his menaces.'

      'Then triply bolt the door,' advised Newnes, with a sigh of disappointment, leaning back in his chair.

      'Do you take me for a man who bolts when his enemy appears?' asked Doyle fiercely, rising to his feet. 'No, I will unbolt. He shall meet the Douglas in his hall!'

      'Better have him in the drawing-room, where it's warm,' suggested Sir George, with a smile, diplomatically desiring to pour oil on the troubled waters.

      The novelist, without reply, spread a copy of that evening's Westminster Gazette over the pile of gold, strode to the door, threw it open, and said coldly:—

      'Show the gentleman in, please.'

      There entered to them a tall, self-possessed, calm man, with clean-shaven face, eagle eye, and inquisitive nose.

      Although the visit was most embarrassing at that particular juncture, the natural courtesy of the novelist restrained him from giving utterance to his resentment of the intrusion, and he proceeded to introduce the bidden to the unbidden guest as if each were equally welcome.

      'Mr. Sherlock Holmes, permit me to present to you Sir George—'

      'It is quite superfluous,' said the newcomer, in an even voice of exasperating tenor, 'for I perceive at once that one who wears a green waistcoat must be a Liberal of strong Home Rule opinions, or the editor of several publications wearing covers of emerald hue. The shamrock necktie, in addition to the waistcoat, indicates that the gentleman before me is both, and so I take it for granted that this is Sir George Newnes. How is your circulation, Sir George?'

      'Rapidly rising,' replied the editor.

      'I am glad of that,' asserted the intruder, suavely, 'and can assure you that the temperature outside is as rapidly falling.'

      The great detective spread his hands before the glowing electric fire, and rubbed them vigorously together.

      'I perceive through that evening paper the sum of six thousand pounds in gold.'

      Doyle interrupted him with some impatience.

      'You didn't see it through the paper; you saw it in the paper. Goodness knows, it's been mentioned in enough of the sheets.'

      'As I was about to remark,' went on Sherlock Holmes imperturbably, 'I am amazed that a man whose time is so valuable should waste it in counting the money. You are surely aware that a golden sovereign weighs 123.44 grains, therefore, if I were you, I should have up the kitchen scales, dump in the metal, and figure out the amount with a lead pencil. You brought the gold in two canvas bags, did you not, Sir George?'

      'In the name of all that's wonderful, how do you know that?' asked the astonished publisher.

      Sherlock Holmes, with a superior smile, casually waved his hand toward the two bags which still lay on the polished table.

      'Oh, I'm tired of this sort of thing,' said Doyle wearily, sitting down in the first chair that presented itself. 'Can't you be honest, even on Christmas Eve? You know the oracles of old did not try it on with each other.'

      'That is true,' said Sherlock Holmes. 'The fact is, I followed Sir George Newnes into the Capital and Counties Bank this afternoon, where he demanded six thousand pounds in gold; but when he learned this would weigh ninety-six pounds seven ounces avoirdupois weight, and that even troy weight would make the sum no lighter, he took two small bags of gold and the rest in Bank of England notes. I came from London on the same train with him, but he was off in the automobile before I could make myself known, and so I had to walk up. I was further delayed by taking the wrong turning on the top and finding myself at that charming spot in the neighbourhood where a sailor was murdered by two ruffians a century or so ago.'

      There was a note of warning in Doyle's voice

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