Some Adventures of Mr. Surelock Keys

One evening early in the month of November, 1908, we were sitting in our cosy rooms in Butcher Street. I was busy extending the notes I had made of some of the marvellous doings of the Great Detective, when Keys stretched his long arms towards the gramophone to start the gentleman who was "afraid to go home in the dark," off on another long explanation of his reasons, but I stopped him with a question—even friendship has its limits, you know:

"You saw the Eburne News of Saturday last, Keys, I suppose?" I said.

"You know nothing ever escapes me, Whenson," he replied.

I thought of the Tiger of San Pedro in Collier’s and The Strand recently, but as it would be about as safe to rouse the tiger, I omitted the retort obvious.

"You refer to the penetration of the vitrified material by the leaden missile, I presume?" he said.

"Yes, the bullet from a .22 through the car window," I replied.

"Well, there was one peculiar thing about that case, but after all it was merely a matter of calculation. The shot was fired according to one account at Kerrisdale, and from another between Townsend and Eburne. That is easily accounted for. The shot struck the glass at the first named place, but so fast was the car travelling that it had proceeded two miles before the bullet reached the woodwork on the other side."

"Oh!" I said. When I had sufficiently recovered I asked him if he had discovered who fired the shot.

"That is a mere vulgar detail, Whenson," he said coldly, as he turned to start the gramophone again.

*II.*

*THE ADVENTURE OF THE IRATE HOUSE-HOLDER*

We were just finishing breakfast when the door was unceremoniously burst open and an obviously excited little man precipitated himself into the room.

"You are an optimist, I perceive," said Keys quietly.

The little man looked amazed, as well he might, not knowing the powers of the Great Detective as well as I did.

"How on earth did you know that?" he ejaculated.

"Quite simple, my dear sir," answered Keys, "you came in without knocking. What can I do for you?"

"Well, sir," the little man went on excitedly, "my name is Bloggs, sir, Joseph Bloggs, and I am the victim of a conspiracy. The Council have sent me in a bill for $96 for three months water rate, and I never used so much in my life.

"No, I can quite believe it," said Keys drily, surveying the rather drab appearance of the visible portions of our visitor’s anatomy. "But whom do you suspect?"

"Well, sir, I voted against the nincompoops that the effete electors have chosen to represent them, and now they’re soaking me."

I could not control my laughter at this unconscious pleasantry, but the little man glared at me, and Keys frowned me into silence.

"Whenson, he has given me a clue; get my gum boots and a piece of blotting paper."

Accustomed to obey his strange commands without question, we were soon following Mr. Bloggs to his home.

Once inside the gate, without hesitation Keys strode across the lawn till he reached a place under which, owing to the unevenness of the ground, it was easy to see the pipe was laid, and stooping down he placed the sheet of blotting paper on the grass, and a second later he held it up saturated with water.

"There is a break in the pipe, Mr. Bloggs," he said. "Get it mended."

*III.*

*THE ADVENTURE OF TWO AND TWO*

Keys was giving way to one of those orgies of spring onions and Limburger cheese to which he occasionally succumbed—for even the greatest of men have failings—and the atmosphere of our dining room was very unpleasant to one with my delicate olfactory nerves, so that it was with a feeling of positive relief that I welcomed the pungent odor of the smoke from a strong black cigar that was wafted in on us as the door opened to admit a stranger.