In life--in the
mortal life--gentlemen, I was a detective by profession, and, if I do say
it, who perhaps should not, I was one of the most interesting for purely
literary purposes that has ever been known. I did not find it necessary to
go about saying 'Ha! ha!' as M. Le Coq was accustomed to do to advertise
his cleverness; neither did I disguise myself as a drum-major and hide
under a kitchen-table for the purpose of solving a mystery involving the
abduction of a parlor stove, after the manner of the talented Hawkshaw. By
mental concentration alone, without fireworks or orchestral accompaniment
of any sort whatsoever, did I go about my business, and for that very
reason many of my fellow-sleuths were forced to go out of real detective
work into that line of the business with which the stage has familiarized
the most of us--a line in which nothing but stupidity, luck, and a yellow
wig is required of him who pursues it."
"This man is an impostor," whispered Le Coq to Hawkshaw.
"I've known that all along by the mole on his left wrist," returned
Hawkshaw, contemptuously.
"I suspected it the minute I saw he was not disguised," returned Le Coq,
knowingly. "I have observed that the greatest villains latterly have
discarded disguises, as being too easily penetrated, and therefore of no
avail, and merely a useless expense.
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