Round the Fire Stories

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[Illustration:

“I BURST WITH A SHRIEK INTO MY OWN LIFE.”

[Page 12.]

ROUND THE FIRE STORIES

by

ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE

Author of “The White Company,” etc., etc.

With a Frontispiece by A. Castaigne

London Smith, Elder & Co., 15, Waterloo Place 1908

(All rights reserved)

Printed by William Clowes and Sons, Limited, London and Beccles.

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PREFACE

[Illustration]

In a previous volume, “The Green Flag,” I have assembled a number of my stories which deal with warfare or with sport. In the present collection those have been brought together which are concerned with the grotesque and with the terrible—such tales as might well be read “round the fire” upon a winter’s night. This would be my ideal atmosphere for such stories, if an author might choose his time and place as an artist does the light and hanging of his picture. However, if they have the good fortune to give pleasure to any one, at any time or place, their author will be very satisfied.

ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE.

WINDLESHAM, CROWBOROUGH.

CONTENTS

PAGE

I. THE LEATHER FUNNEL 1

II. THE BEETLE HUNTER 18

III. THE MAN WITH THE WATCHES 41

IV. THE POT OF CAVIARE 65

V. THE JAPANNED BOX 85

VI. THE BLACK DOCTOR 103

VII. PLAYING WITH FIRE 129

VIII. THE JEW’S BREASTPLATE 149

IX. THE LOST SPECIAL 177

X. THE CLUB-FOOTED GROCER 202

XI. THE SEALED ROOM 229

XII. THE BRAZILIAN CAT 248

XIII. THE USHER OF LEA HOUSE SCHOOL 276

XIV. THE BROWN HAND 299

XV. THE FIEND OF THE COOPERAGE 321

XVI. JELLAND’S VOYAGE 340

XVII. B. 24 351

“I BURST WITH A SHRIEK INTO MY OWN LIFE.” Frontispiece. (From a drawing by A. Castaigne.)

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ROUND THE FIRE STORIES

[Illustration]

THE LEATHER FUNNEL

My friend, Lionel Dacre, lived in the Avenue de Wagram, Paris. His house was that small one, with the iron railings and grass plot in front of it, on the left-hand side as you pass down from the Arc de Triomphe. I fancy that it had been there long before the avenue was constructed, for the grey tiles were stained with lichens, and the walls were mildewed and discoloured with age. It looked a small house from the street, five windows in front, if I remember right, but it deepened into a single long chamber at the back. It was here that Dacre had that singular library of occult literature, and the fantastic curiosities which served as a hobby for himself, and an amusement for his friends. A wealthy man of refined and eccentric tastes, he had spent much of his life and fortune in gathering together what was said to be a unique private collection of Talmudic, cabalistic, and magical works, many of them of great rarity and value. His tastes leaned toward the marvellous and the monstrous, and I have heard that his experiments in the direction of the unknown have passed all the bounds of civilization and of decorum. To his English friends he never alluded to such matters, and took the tone of the student and virtuoso; but a Frenchman whose tastes were of the same nature has assured me that the worst excesses of the black mass have been perpetrated in that large and lofty hall, which is lined with the shelves of his books, and the cases of his museum.