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 you are right,' remarked the detective, flinging his revolver
carelessly beside his pipe, much to the relief of the third party.
Then, turning to the journalist, he said, with his customary bland
courtesy--

'You wanted to see me, I think you said. What can I do for you, Mr
Wilber Scribbings?'

The journalist started.

'How do you know my name?' he gasped.

Kombs waved his hand impatiently.

'Look inside your hat if you doubt your own name.'

I then noticed for the first time that the name was plainly to be seen
inside the top-hat Scribbings held upside down in his hands.

'You have heard, of course, of the Pegram myste