Sherlock Holmes Jazz Age Parodies and Pastiches I: 1920-1924

By Bill Peschel

Welcome to 223B Baker Street

The debut of Sherlock Holmes in the pages of The Strand magazine introduced one of fiction’s most memorable heroes. Arthur Conan Doyle’s spellbinding tales of mystery and detection, along with Holmes’ deep friendship with Doctor Watson, touched the hearts of fans worldwide, and inspired imitations, parodies, songs, art, even erotica, that continues to this very day.

“Sherlock Holmes Jazz Age Parodies and Pastiches I: 1920-1924” collects 38 pieces — short stories, poems, and cartoons — all published during this part of Conan Doyle’s literary career. Included are stories by Dashiell Hammett, Arthur Conan Doyle, and James Thurber. Also included are much of the original art and more than 340 footnotes identifying obscure words, historical figures, and events that readers were familiar with at the time.

Peschel Press’ 223B Casebook series — named because they’re “next door” to the original stories — is dedicated to publishing fanfiction created by amateur and professional writers during Conan Doyle’s lifetime.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Peschel Press
• Release date: Jul 15, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463938638

Bill Peschel

Bill Peschel is a recovering journalist who shares a Pulitzer Prize with the staff of The Patriot-News in Harrisburg, Pa. He also is mystery fan who has run the Wimsey Annotations at www.planetpeschel.com for nearly two decades. He is the author of the 223B series of Sherlock Holmes parodies and pastiches, "The Complete, Annotated Mysterious Affair at Styles," "The Complete, Annotated Secret Adversary" and "The Complete, Annotated Whose Body?" as well as "Writers Gone Wild" (Penguin Books). He lives in Hershey, where the air really does smell like chocolate.

Book preview

Introduction

Western civilization was changing, and Sherlock Holmes was changing with it.

The pressures fueling those changes were many. The war to end all wars had killed 18 million and wounded 23 million, at least 20 percent of Europe, and affected millions more. The Spanish flu that followed killed between three and five percent of the world’s population. Shifting the economy from the munitions of war to peacetime uses caused housing shortages and reduced the employment prospects of women. Europe was rebuilding its cities, towns, and farmlands, reacting to the spread of revolutionary communism, and adjusting to the presence of new nations created from the ruins of empires.

In Britain, the monolithic Victorian culture was cracking as well under the weight of new ideas and new inventions. Radio was spreading news and music to a population that formerly relied on print for its information and live performances for its entertainment. New fabrics made clothing lighter and new styles possible. Women no longer had to wear the fashions of their Victorian mothers that weighed up to 40 pounds. Photography pushed painting and fine arts away from representation and into abstracts and other modernist forms. The growing popularity of silent movies created not only new ways to tell stories, but imprinted fresh images on millions of minds as if they had experienced them directly.

Change came to Sherlock Holmes as well. Conan Doyle was still writing stories: six of them during 1920-1924. They were welcomed by fans, but some wondered if their creator was putting less effort into them, or even if he was writing them at all! To paraphrase one contemporary reader, Holmes never seemed the same after he returned from Switzerland.

During this period, Holmes also underwent two major shifts. First, he was appearing more frequently in the new media. A few Holmes films were made during the previous decade, the most successful being William Gillette’s portrayal in 1916. The new decade saw a flood of films. In Britain, Eille Norwood brought most of the canonical stories to the screen, while in America, the Great Profile, John Barrymore, played the detective, with the help of a young William Powell and future gossip columnist Hedda Hopper. More would follow.

In the field of parodies and pastiches, Holmes still appeared in the usual stories featuring the well-known tropes. But in others he seemed to have faded, like a photocopy of a photocopy of a photocopy, leaving a shadow of the iconic great detective. A young James Thurber, writing for his hometown newspaper, the Columbus Dispatch, created a detective with the odd name of Blue Ploermell. Although as brilliant as Holmes, he is assisted by a Japanese servant, and instead of opium, exhibited a fondness for animal crackers. Alongside the Holmes of old in stories such as Vincent Starrett’s The Unique Hamlet and Peter Todd’s The Case of the Sinn Feiners, there were stories which came not to praise him but to bury him, such as Dashiell Hammett’s The Master Mind and the communist parody Herlock Sholmes Catches Reds.

Such disrespect can be annoying, but take it as a compliment. Iconoclasts and rebels do not waste their energies on the forgotten and powerless. Sherlock Holmes, with his insistence on understanding what you see, on following a logical chain of facts, and serving justice as well as the law, was a potent symbol then and today. That generation and those to come continue to embrace Holmes, whether through Conan Doyle, Jeremy Brett, Vasily Livanov, Benedict Cumberbatch, Basil Rathbone, Eille Norwood, and even William Gillette.

In a way few fictional characters can match, Holmes lives in the permanent present.

Bill Peschel

April 2018

P.S.: If you like this series, will you consider spreading the word about it? A review, a comment online, a mention to another Sherlock Holmes fan would be very much appreciated. Thank you.

How the Book Was Organized

The 223B Casebook Series has two goals: To reprint the majority of the parodies and pastiches published in Conan Doyle’s lifetime, especially rare items not readily available, and stories collected about a single subject, such as The Early Punch Parodies of Sherlock Holmes.

The stories in the chronological books appear in the order in which readers of the time would have seen them. This way, we can see how writers changed their perception of Sherlock as the canonical stories were published. Stories for which dates could not be found, such as those published in books, were moved to the back of the year.

Each chapter begins with a description of Conan Doyle’s activities that year. I tried to keep the essays self-contained, but some events, such as Conan Doyle’s longtime relationship with Jean Leckie, span years, and you may need to read the essays in previous books in the series to fully understand them.

The stories were reprinted as accurately as possible. No attempt was made to standardize British and American spelling. Some words have undergone changes over the years—Shakespere instead of Shakespeare and to-morrow for tomorrow—they were left alone. Obvious mistakes of spelling and grammar were silently corrected, except in certain stated cases, and long paragraphs were broken up to aid readability.

Image No. 1

Spirit photo of Arthur Conan Doyle with his late son, Kingsley.

1920

Arthur Conan Doyle was a man on a mission. After a lifetime of investigating, he was convinced: There was life beyond the grave. The year before, he announced his conversion to Spiritualism to a friend. The rest of my life, he wrote, will be spent in endeavouring to show the human race how blind and deaf they have been in not understanding the great new spiritual forces which have come in so strange a fashion into the world. Nothing else mattered, not his politics nor his writings. Especially not Sherlock Holmes, whom he detested as a financial necessity and a millstone around his reputation as a serious writer.

Many saw his embrace of life after death as the response of a grieving man. Because of the war, he had lost his brother, his beloved son, and other members of his extended family. Conan Doyle didn’t see it that way. He had been drawn to Spiritualism as a young doctor in Portsmouth in 1885. He had joined the Society of Psychic Research, attended séances, investigated mediums, and experienced phenomena he could not explain. He knew the world was on the cusp of a new golden age. The thin fabric between the material and spiritual worlds had been pierced. He was wholly convinced of the truth. As his great detective stated: "Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth."

His task was clear: He would travel the world, endure the criticism, spend his fortune, exhaust his energies, and sacrifice his life to the cause.

This year, his crusade opened with a notable success and closed in startling failure. In March, he accepted a challenge to debate Joseph McCabe in London’s Queen’s Hall before a sellout crowd. It was a battle between Doyle, the lapsed Catholic turned believer, and McCabe, the ex-Franciscan priest turned atheist. For hours the two men argued their position. McCabe attacked Spiritualism as born of fraud, cradled in fraud, and nurtured in fraud. He asked the audience to be satisfied with this great broad earth which we do know and can control. … Here is a world which in its great tasks is fit to absorb the energy and devotion of every living man and woman on its surface.

Then McCabe made a serious error. He challenged Conan Doyle to name ten professors who had defended Spiritualism. Conan Doyle joyfully replied that he knew not just 10, but 160 people of high distinction, many of them of great eminence, including over forty professors. Arguing from authority is a logical error. History is full of eminent scientists, Nobelists, actors, and heroes who expressed foolish beliefs outside their expertise. But Conan Doyle’s rhetorical skill and avuncular personality carried his argument and made him a man whose beliefs were worth considering.

The next month marked a new milestone in his relationship with American magician Harry Houdini. The two men corresponded for months after Houdini sent him his anti-medium book The Unmasking of Robert-Houdin. When Houdini took his stage show to Brighton, Conan Doyle invited him to lunch at his home, Windlesham, in nearby Crowborough.

Photographs of the two men highlighted their differences. Where Conan Doyle looked generally pleased with himself and life, Houdini displayed an intense focus on the viewer. Despite being a head shorter, his dominant forehead made his appear to fill the foreground. The bluff Scotsman and the energetic, egotistical German-Jew also shared a deep love for their mothers, a strained, almost nonexistent relationship with their fathers, a commanding stage presence and a firm grasp on their convictions.

Despite their differences, they bonded over Spiritualism. While Conan Doyle was firmly in the belief camp, Houdini was not firmly on the rejection side. So long as he wavered, they could stay on cordial terms. Houdini’s performing schedule also permitted him to flit in and out of Conan Doyle’s life, and much of their friendship was conducted through the mails.

In May, Conan Doyle heard that two girls had photographed fairies. In 1917, up in rural West Yorkshire, cousins Elsie Wright and Frances Griffiths used a borrowed camera to take five pictures. In one photo, 9-year-old Frances laid on the ground, flowers in her hair, while a group of fairies danced before her. Another showed 16-year-old Elsie looking at a fairy perched on a branch offering her a bouquet of harebells. Elsie’s mother discussed the photographs at a meeting of the Theosophical Society. Word reached Conan Doyle as he was leaving for a six-month tour of Australia and New Zealand. He wrote to the family asking for details and helped society member Edward Gardner investigate the photos.

Gardner, a building contractor who already believed in fairies, goblins, and pixies, traveled to the village of Cottingley, saw the photographs, and encouraged the girls to take more pictures of the fairies. One expert examined the glass-plate negatives and pronounced them genuine. Another didn’t see any manipulation of the image, but said he could take a similar picture. Since girls were incapable of deception, Conan Doyle chose to believe them.

In December, while he was touring New Zealand, The Strand published his article, Fairies Photographed – An Epoch Making Event. In addition to the evidence of the photographs, he added the testimony of witnesses of unimpeachable honesty. This included his children who said they had seen sprites. The reaction by the public and press was a combination of disbelief and laughter. Headlines suggested Conan Doyle was mad. He released a statement trying to distance his belief in fairies from Spiritualism, but the damage was done. For the rest of his life, he continued to defend the photos publicly (as did Gardner, who lived until he was 100).

That same month, the Ma’am, Mary Foley Doyle, died at 83. She had not taken kindly to her favorite son’s conversion to Spiritualism. She chose to live out her days with her daughter, Connie, and her husband, E.W. Hornung. Conan Doyle’s reaction was generous: She had an innate faith and spirituality which were so natural to her that she could not conceive the needs of others in that direction. She understands now. Soon, mediums would convey messages from her apologizing for her skepticism.

Publications: The British Campaign in France and Flanders, Vol. 6 (Jan.); Spiritualism and Rationalism (Aug.).

Image No. 2

One of the Cottingley Fairy photos.

The Case of the Sinn Feiners

Peter Todd (Charles Hamilton)

Charles Hamilton (1876-1961) was not only a prolific creator of Holmesian parodies, but one of the most prolific writers of all time. Over a six-decade career, he wrote hundreds of stories in all genres under multiple pennames. Many of them were set at Greyfriars School and featuring his most famous character, the anti-hero Billy Bunter. In addition, Hamilton wrote 93 stories featuring Herlock Sholmes and Dr. Jotson. Written with a dry humor, these stories can reveal to the attentive reader a subversive attitude. Take, for instance, The Case of the Sinn Feiners, published in the Aug. 28 issue of The Greyfriars Herald. While Hamilton indulges in a few Irish stereotypes, he doesn’t condemn Fenian attempts to win Irish independence and even sneaks in shots at British authority figures. Note also the nod to Sexton Blake, the poor man’s Sherlock Holmes, his assistant Tinker and the dog, Pedro.

I.

Pack your bag, my dear Jotson, said Herlock Sholmes, when I came down to breakfast one morning in our rooms at Shaker Street.

We are going— I began.

To Ireland, said Sholmes. "You have just time to make your will and pay up on your insurance, Jotson. These little precautions are necessary—it is not as if we were merely going to Tartary or Timbuctoo."

And our business in Ireland, Sholmes? I inquired.

You have heard of Sinn Fein, my dear fellow?

I have certainly heard the word, Sholmes. Is it a new breakfast food?

Nothing of the kind.

A new parlour game? I hazarded.

Sholmes shook his head.

"If you were a regular reader of the Daily Snooze, Jotson, you would know that Sinn Fein is the free and independent patriot party in the sister isle. If, on the other hand, you regularly read the Morning Ghost, you would be aware that Sinn Fein is the unpatriotic and traitorous party in Ireland. Like the little boy in the story, you pays your money and you takes your choice."

And the truth, Sholmes?

Sholmes smiled compassionately.

My dear fellow, all the news from Ireland comes in the shape of official reports or newspaper telegrams. There’s no question of truth.

True!

"My services have been called in by Dublin Castle, explained Herlock Sholmes. Sinn Fein outrages have now reached the culminating point, or the patriot movement has now become formidable, whichever you like. Police-stations have been burned; policemen have been potted; banks have been robbed; life and property rendered generally unsafe—but that is nothing out of the common—the climax has now been reached."

Good heavens, Sholmes! What has happened?

A distinguished official has been kidnapped by the Sinn Feiners! said Sholmes.

My hand trembled as I dissected my kipper.

This was, indeed, startling news!

"He was taken from his car, on the road near Ballybooze, said Sholmes. He has disappeared completely, with his kidnappers. What their intentions are is not known. They cannot blow his brains out—"

Why not, Sholmes?

I have mentioned that he is a distinguished official, Jotson. The feat would therefore be impossible.

Most true!

But he is deprived of his liberty, and in all probability restricted to a meager diet of whisky and potatoes—

Horrible!

However, I shall be there, said Sholmes carelessly. Once arrived at Ballybooze I do not anticipate great difficulties.

You have a clue?

None!

Then how—

"I am going to call on my friend and colleague, Bexton Stake, and borrow his celebrated bloodhound, Squeedro," explained Sholmes.

Ah! I exclaimed. You will show Squeedro something belonging to the prisoner, and he will follow the track—

Not at all.

Then I do not see—

"I do not expect you to, Jotson. Pack your bag, my dear fellow, and let us walk our chalks," said Sholmes.

On our way to the station we called in at the office of Bexton Slake, who was almost as famous a detective as Herlock Sholmes himself.

Slake was lying back in an armchair, examining an ordinary glass tumbler filled with some dark-coloured liquid, which he held tilted to his mouth. Strange gurgling noises emanated from the great detective’s throat.

On his knee reclined the graceful form of the one and only Squeedro. Sitting on the floor, playing "noughts and crosses," was Slinker, Slake’s handsome young assistant.

Without beating about the bush Sholmes stated his mission, and, having presented his friend and colleague with a fivepenny cigar given him by a noted criminal on the previous evening, Slake readily agreed to allow him the services of his bloodhound.

An hour later we were en route for Dublin.

Image No. 3

II.

The shades of night were falling fast—as I believe some poet has already remarked—when we arrived at Ballybooze.

It was a lonely village in the midst of the Tippleary mountains.

We put up at the village inn, which, for some reason unknown to us, had not been burned to the ground.

We retired to rest early. The night was an unusually quiet and peaceful one. Not more than five or six dead bodies were visible from the windows when we rose in the morning.

After breakfast Sholmes led Squeedro, the bloodhound, to the spot where the kidnapped official had been taken from his car.

I watched my amazing friend with keen interest.

I had expected that he would show the bloodhound some article belonging to the missing gentleman, but this was not Sholmes’ method.

As the kidnapped gentleman was taken away in a cart, he cannot have left a scent behind him, Jotson, he explained.

True, I remarked. But, in that case, I fail to see how Bexton Slake’s bloodhound will assist you.

Sholmes smiled.

Squeedro will follow the scent of the Sinn Feiners, he answered.

But they are unknown—

Quite so.

You have nothing belonging to them!

True.

Then how— I exclaimed.

Patience, my dear fellow.

Sholmes drew a whisky-flask from his pocket. It contained Irish whisky.

Uncorking it, he held it to the bloodhound’s nose.

Squeedro gave one sniff, and started off at a loping trot across the mountain.

Come on, Jotson!

Sholmes followed the bloodhound, and I followed Sholmes, lost in wonder at the amazing sagacity of my astonishing friend.

The way was long, the wind was cold, but we pushed on rapidly, led by the unfailing Squeedro.

Over mountain and bog he led us, guided unerringly by the scent of Irish whisky.

Two hours later we arrived at the mouth of a solitary cavern. One glance at Sholmes’s face was enough for the Sinn Feiners; they fled.

In the cavern lay a prisoner, who, by his expression of vacant imbecility, we knew at once must be a Government official.

The kidnapped man, Jotson, drawled Herlock Sholmes.

Once more my amazing friend had succeeded!

The Fall Mystery

Anonymous

Conan Doyle’s announcement the previous year of his conversion to Spiritualism opened a new source of humor in Holmesian fanfiction. This example was published in the Sept. 9 edition of The Sun newspaper in Sydney, Australia.

This mystery of Adam intrigues me, Watson, said Persnurlock Holmes, laying down his cocaine bottle.

Well, said Dr. Watson. It’ll never be solved now.

Don’t be so sure, said the Det. I have been on the case myself and—ah! Come in. If I mistake not, this is our man. Dr. Watson, let me introduce you to Mr. Sroliver Coyle, the noted medium. Shall we begin, Coyle?

The medium immediately assumed a vacant expression. The detective played his violin to him, but not a sign of agony showed upon his face.

You see, said Persnurlock Holmes. Unconscious of this world.

Yes, said Watson. That’s enough.

A strange voice came out of the medium’s mouth. You called me, sir?

Yes, said Persnurlock Holmes.

You are—? cried Watson.

Adam, replied the voice.

How did you manage to keep those fig leaves from shrivelling? asked Watson.

D—n it, Watson! said Holmes. "That’s not the mystery. Ass! Don’t offend him now that we’ve got him from 6,000 years the other side of the grave.

Did you fall? he went on, addressing the voice.

Or were you pushed? asked Watson.

Of man’s first disobedience, and the fruit of that forbidden tree— began the voice.

Yes, yes! cried the two investigators eagerly.

Eve, flesh of my flesh, rib of my rib, bone of my bone, heart of my heart! cried Adam.

We’re on to it! whispered Persnurlock Holmes.

Mind the nasty snake, pet, said Adam. Was it ickle Evey-wevey want-um bitey nasty apple?

Gee! said Watson. I never knew it was as old as that!

I was pushed. Lord, said Adam, the woman that thou gavest to me to wife tempted me, and I did eat.

The dirty dog! said Watson. Putting it on to that poor little woman!

The medium woke with a start.

The beggar did fall, said Watson.

Nonsense, said Holmes. ‘Didn’t you hear him say he was pushed?"

I wouldn’t believe him on an oath! cried Watson. A man who would shelter behind a woman’s petticoats.

Petticoats, bah! said the detective. She didn’t wear petticoats—

Pardon me, said Sroliver Coyle, breaking into the discussion, but which one of you gents pays me?

The Unique Hamlet

Vincent Starrett

I’ve always wanted to do a synthetic Sherlock, wrote journalist and bibliophile Charles Vincent Starrett (1886-1974), the beginning of one story, the middle of another, and the conclusion of a third; or perhaps six or eight of the adventures merged into a perfect Holmes tale.

Starrett was certainly well-qualified to write it. His 1933 book, The Private Life of Sherlock Holmes, demonstrated how much biographical material about Holmes could be mined from the sixty stories. He also co-founded the Chicago chapter of the Baker Street Irregulars, the Hounds of the Baskerville.

Thus begat The Unique Hamlet, one of the purest Sherlock pastiches ever written. Starrett printed 11 copies for his friends, and bookseller Walter M. Hill printed another 100 in an edition that would cost you about seven grand to acquire today. Starrett inscribed one copy for Conan Doyle: "My Dear Sir Arthur—I am wondering whether, by sending you this impertinence in print, I may not be adding insult to injury! However, I think you know how deeply I admire Holmes (not to mention Saxon, Aylward, Nigel, and the rest of the glorious company), and so perhaps you will only smile at this dubious tribute. It is, at least, well-intentioned, if there be any merit left in that old and furtive apology. Sincerely, Vincent Starrett."

In 1944, Frederic Dannay and Manfred Lee, a.k.a. Ellery Queen, published the story in their Misadventures of Sherlock Holmes, and Wildside Press reissued its version in 2012.

Dedication: To Sir Arthur Conan Doyle with admiration and apologies.

Holmes, said I, one morning as I stood in our bay window, looking idly into the street, surely here comes a madman. Someone has incautiously left the door open and the poor fellow has slipped out. What a pity!

It was a glorious morning in the spring, with a fresh breeze and inviting sunlight, but as it was early few persons were as yet astir. Birds twittered under the neighboring eaves, and from the far end of the thoroughfare came faintly the droning cry of an umbrella-repair man; a lean cat slunk across the cobbles and disappeared into a courtway; but for the most part the street was deserted save for the eccentric individual who had called forth my exclamation.

My friend rose lazily from the chair in which he had been lounging, and came to my side, standing with long legs spread and hands in the pockets of his dressing gown. He smiled as he saw the singular personage coming along; and a personage indeed he seemed to be, despite his curious actions, for he was tall and portly, with elderly whiskers of the variety called mutton-chop, and eminently respectable. He was loping curiously, like a tired hound, lifting his knees high as he ran, and a heavy double watch-chain bounced against and rebounded from the plump line of his figured waistcoat. With one hand he clutched despairingly at his silk, two-gallon hat, while with the other he made strange gestures in the air in an emotion bordering upon distraction. We could almost see the spasmodic workings of his countenance.

What under heaven can ail him? I cried. See how he glances at the houses as he passes.

He is looking at the numbers, responded Sherlock Holmes, with dancing eyes, and I fancy it is ours that will bring him the greatest happiness. His profession, of course, is obvious.

A banker, I should imagine, or at least a person of affluence, I ventured, wondering what curious bit of minutiae had betrayed the man’s vocation to my remarkable companion, in a single glance.

Affluent, yes, said Holmes, with a mischievous twinkle, but not exactly a banker, Watson. Notice the sagging pockets, despite the excellence of his clothing, and the rather exaggerated madness of his eye. He is a collector, or I am very much mistaken.

My dear fellow! I exclaimed. At his age and in his station! And why should he be seeking us? When we settled that last bill—

Of books, said my friend, severely. "He is a book collector. His line is Caxtons, Elzevirs, and Gutenberg Bibles; not the sordid reminders of unpaid grocery accounts. See, he is turning in, as I expected, and in a moment he will stand upon our hearthrug and tell the harrowing tale of an unique volume and its extraordinary disappearance."

His eyes gleamed and he rubbed his hands together in satisfaction. I could not but hope that his conjecture was correct, for he had had little recently to occupy his mind, and I lived in constant fear that he would seek that stimulation his active brain required in the long-tabooed cocaine bottle.

As Holmes finished speaking the doorbell echoed through the house; then hurried feet were sounding on the stairs, while the wailing voice of Mrs. Hudson, raised in protest, could only have been occasioned by frustration of her coveted privilege of bearing up our caller’s card. Then the door burst violently inward and the object of our analysis staggered to the center of the room and, without announcing his intention by word or sign, pitched headforemost to our center rug. There he lay, a magnificent ruin, with his head on the fringed border and his feet in the coal scuttle; and sealed within his lifeless lips was the amazing story he had come to tell for that it was amazing we could not doubt in the light of our client’s extraordinary behavior.

Sherlock Holmes ran quickly for the brandy bottle, while I knelt beside the stricken man and loosened his wilted neckband. He was not dead, and when we had forced the nozzle of the flask between his teeth he sat up in groggy fashion, passing a dazed hand across his eyes. Then he scrambled to his feet with an embarrassed apology for his weakness, and fell into the chair which Holmes invitingly held towards him.

That is right, Mr. Harrington Edwards, said my companion, soothingly. Be quite calm, my dear sir, and when you have recovered your composure you will find us ready to listen.

You know me then? cried our visitor. There was pride in his voice and he lifted his eyebrows in surprise.

I had never heard of you until this moment; but if you wish to conceal your identity it would be well, said Sherlock Holmes, for you to leave your bookplates at home. As Holmes spoke he returned a little package of folded paper slips, which he had picked from the floor. They fell from your hat when you had the misfortune to collapse, he added whimsically.

Yes, yes, cried the collector, a deep blush spreading across his features. I remember now; my hat was a little large and I folded a number of them and placed them beneath the sweatband. I had forgotten.

Rather shabby usage for a handsome etched plate, smiled my companion; "but that is your affair. And now, sir, if you are quite at ease, let us hear what it is that has brought you, a collector of books, from Poke Stogis Manor, the name that is on the plate, to the office of Mr. Sherlock Holmes, consulting expert in crime. Surely nothing but the theft of Mahomet’s own copy of the Koran can have affected you so strongly."

Mr. Harrington Edwards smiled feebly at the jest, then sighed. Alas, he murmured, "if that were all! But I shall begin at the beginning.

"You must know, then, that I am the greatest Shakespearean commentator in the world. My collection of ana is unrivaled and much of the world’s collection (and consequently its knowledge of the veritable Shakespeare) has emanated from my pen. One book I did not possess: It was unique, in the correct sense of that abused word; the greatest Shakespeare rarity in the world. Few knew that it existed, for its existence was kept a profound secret among a chosen few. Had it become known that this book was in England any place, indeed its owner would have been hounded to his grave by wealthy Americans.

"It was in the possession of my friend—I tell you this in strictest confidence—of my friend, Sir Nathaniel Brooke-Bannerman, whose place at Walton-on-Walton is next to my own. A scant two hundred yards separate our dwellings; so intimate has been our friendship that a few years ago the fence between our estates was removed, and each roamed or loitered at will in the other’s preserves.

For some years, now, I have been at work upon my greatest book, my magnum opus. It was to be my last book also, embodying the results of a lifetime of study and research. Sir, I know Elizabethan London better than any man alive; better than any man who ever lived, I think— He burst suddenly into tears.

There, there, said Sherlock Holmes, gently. Do not be distressed. Pray continue with your interesting narrative. What was this book which, I take it, in some manner has disappeared? You borrowed it from your friend?

That is what I am coming to, said Mr. Harrington Edwards, drying his tears, "but as for help, Mr. Holmes, I fear that is beyond even you. As you surmise, I needed this book. Knowing its value, which could not be fixed, for the book is priceless, and knowing Sir Nathaniel’s idolatry of it, I hesitated before asking for the loan of it. But I had to have it, for without it my work could not have been completed, and at length I made my request. I suggested that I visit him in his home and go through the volume under his eyes, he sitting at my side throughout my entire examination, and servants stationed at every door and window, with fowling pieces in their hands.

"You can imagine my astonishment when Sir Nathaniel laughed at my precautions. ‘My dear Edwards,’ he said, ‘that would be all very well were you Arthur Bambidge or Sir Homer Nantes (mentioning the two great men of the British Museum), or were you Mr. Henry Hutterson, the American railway magnate; but you are my friend, Harrington Edwards, and you shall take the book home with you for as long as you like.’ I protested vigorously, I can assure you; but he would have it so, and as I was touched by this mark of his esteem, at length I permitted him to have his way. My God! If I had remained adamant! If I had only . . ."

He broke off and for a moment stared blindly into space. His eyes were directed at the Persian slipper on the wall, in the toe of which Holmes kept his tobacco, but we could see that his thoughts were far away.

Come, Mr. Edwards, said Holmes, firmly. You are agitating yourself unduly. And you are unreasonably prolonging our curiosity. You have not yet told us what this book is.

Mr. Harrington Edwards gripped the arm of the chair in which he sat. Then he spoke, and his voice was low and thrilling:

The book was a Hamlet quarto, dated 1602, presented by Shakespeare to his friend Drayton, with an inscription four lines in length, written and signed by the Master, himself!

My dear sir! I exclaimed. Holmes blew a long, slow whistle of astonishment.

It is true, cried the collector. "That is the book I borrowed, and that is the book I lost! The long-sought quarto of 1602, actually inscribed in Shakespeare’s own hand! His greatest drama, in an edition dated a year earlier than any that is known; a perfect copy, and with four lines in his own handwriting! Unique! Extraordinary! Amazing! Astounding! Colossal! Incredible! Un—"

He seemed wound up to continue indefinitely; but Holmes, who had sat quite still at first, shocked by the importance of the loss, interrupted the flow of adjectives.

I appreciate your emotion, Mr. Edwards, he said, and the book is indeed all that you say it is. Indeed, it is so important that we must at once attack the problem of rediscovering it. Compose yourself, my dear sir, and tell us of the loss. The book, I take it, is readily identifiable?

Mr. Holmes, said our client, earnestly, "it would be impossible to hide it. It is so important a volume that, upon coming into its possession, Sir Nathaniel Brooke-Bannerman called a consultation of the great binders of the Empire, at which were present Mr. Riviere, Messrs. Sangorski and Sutclifle, Mr. Zaehnsdorf, and certain others. They and myself, with two others, alone know of the book’s existence. When I tell you that it is bound in brown levant morocco, with leather joints and brown levant doublures and fly-leaves, the whole elaborately gold-tooled, inlaid with seven hundred and fifty separate pieces of various colored leathers, and enriched by the insertion of eighty-seven precious stones, I need not add that it is a design that never will be duplicated, and I mention only a few of its glories. The binding was personally done by Messrs. Riviere, Sangorski, Sutcliffe, and Zaehnsdorf, working alternately, and is a work of such enchantment that any man might gladly die a thousand