overed, I reasoned, although the
best detective talent was employed to ferret them out, it must be true
that the detectives went about their work in the wrong way. And not
only in the wrong way, but exactly opposite from the right way. That
was my clue.

"I slew the man in Central Park. Now, let me describe myself to you.

"I am tall, with a black beard, and I hate publicity. I have no money
to speak of; I do not like oatmeal, and it is the one ambition of my
life to die rich. I am of a cold and heartless disposition. I do not
care for my fellowmen and I never give a cent to beggars or charity.

"Now, my dear doctor, that is the true description of myself, the man
whom that shrewd detective was to hunt down. You who are familiar with
the history of crime in New York of late should be able to foretell the
result. When I promised you to exhibit to your incredulous gaze the
sleuth who was set upon me, you laughed at me because you said that
detectives and murderers never met in New York. I have demonstrated to
you that the theory is possible."

"But how did you do it?" I asked again.

"It was very simple," replied the distinguished murderer. "I assumed
that the detective would go exactly opposite to the clues he had. I
have given you a description of myself. Therefore, he must necessarily
set to work and trail a short man with a white beard who likes to be in
the papers, who is very wealthy, is fond 'of oatmeal, wants to die
poor, and is of an extremely generous and philanthropic disposition.
When thus far is reached the mind hesitates no longer. I conveyed you
at once to the spot where Shamrock Jolnes was piping off Andrew
Carnegie's residence."

"Knight," said I, "you're a wonder. If there was no danger of your
reforming, what a rounds man you'd make for the Nineteenth Precinct!"

THE DOG AND THE PLAYLET

[This story has been rewritten and published in "Strictly Business"
under the title, The Proof of the Pudding.]

Usually it is a cold day in July when you can stroll up Broadway in
that month and get a story out of the drama. I found one a few
breathless, parboiling days ago, and it seems to decide a serious
question in art.

There was not a soul left in the city except Hollis and me--and two or
three million sunworshippers who remained at desks and counters. The
elect had fled to seashore, lake, and mountain, and had already begun
to draw for additional funds. Every evening Hollis and I