humanity was there except himself.

"I could not do otherwise," he murmured, "It was too great a risk to
run."

THE GREAT PEGRAM MYSTERY.

(_With apologies to Dr. Conan Doyle, and our mutual and lamented
friend the late Sherlock Holmes_.)

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, eulogizing 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 characterizes so many other men.

He filled his pipe, threw himself into his deep-seated arm-chair,
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 reall