y 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 recognized 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 me about 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 t