Sherlock Holmes Great War Parodies and Pastiches II: 1915-1919

Introduction: Slaughter and Spiritualism

With this volume, we enter a new age in Holmesian fanfiction brought on by two major historical events.

First, Western civilization found itself in the age of world war, with battles on a scale never seen before. War was no longer fought between countries, but teams: the Allies vs. the Central Powers. Trench lines ran from the English Channel to the Swiss Alps. Conflicts raged between nations on multiple fronts across Europe and East Africa. The prospect arose of a German-Mexican alliance against the United States. With the help of airplanes, zeppelins, artillery, and submarines, war broke beyond the front lines and into civilian areas.

Then there was the new age as New Age with new beliefs and philosophies. As the casualty list grew, as more and more families grieved, people turned to Spiritualism. Cranks and con artists took advantage of the gullible and hurting, but sober scientists and well-meaning advocates—Conan Doyle especially—believed and campaigned to spread the word.

In the world of Holmesian fanfiction, the war stories appeared first. After the heady rush of mobilization in August 1914, and the realization that the troops wouldn’t be over by Christmas, Britains realized they would have to endure more than they expected. This war wasn’t fought with feints and maneuvers and dashing armies clashing on a battlefield. More powerful weapons, including the machine gun, barbed wire, gas, and artillery, created massive fronts where gains and losses were measured in yards. Casualties were high. By the end of 1915, several of Conan Doyle’s relatives had already died; nine in all by the war’s end.

So Holmes went to war. He was used as a morale builder by Conan Doyle in His Final Bow. Other writers adopted him to reflect on the conflict, from the dark humor needed to cope with fighting and dying at the front to the civilian experience at home. He appeared in an internment camp’s magazine as well as those published by soldiers on scavenged printing presses and paper. These trench journals, mostly amateurishly written and edited, created a dual message, in the code of soldier slang and military terms, that portrayed accurately and humorously their war experiences to their comrades, without being completely understood, and alarming to, the civilians at home.

The second influence on the stories appeared after Conan Doyle become a Spiritualist. He had been attending séances since his days as a young doctor in Southsea three decades before. He had investigated mediums and talked to people about the messages they had received from the great beyond. Nor was he alone in this quest. Organizations such as the London Spiritualist Alliance applied scientific methods to their inquiries. Some mediums were out-and-out frauds, caught with their hands in the ectoplasm, so to speak. Some cases—well—the best we can say is that we’ll never know for sure from the evidence left behind.

It was during this period, Conan Doyle embarked on his last great crusade, to teach us that the dead live on and have something to say to us. The public’s respect for him was so great that they were willing to listen, at least at first. The magazine and newspaper writers were much more skeptical. These stories will reflect that as well.

Bill Peschel

Hershey, Pa.

Feb. 29, 2016

P.S.: If you like this series, will you consider spreading the word about it? A review, a comment online, or a mention to another Sherlock Holmes fan would be very much appreciated. Thank you.

B.P.

How the Book Was Organized

The 223B Casebook Series has two goals: To reprint the majority of the parodies and pastiches published in Conan Doyle’s lifetime, especially rare items not readily available, and stories collected about a single subject, such as The Early Punch Parodies of Sherlock Holmes.

The stories in the chronological books appear in the order in which readers of the time would have seen them. This way, we can see how writers changed their perception of Sherlock as the canonical stories were published. Stories for which dates could not be found, such as those published in books, were moved to the back of the year.

Each chapter begins with a description of Conan Doyle’s activities that year. I tried to keep the essays self-contained, but some events, such as Conan Doyle’s longtime relationship with Jean Leckie, span years, and you may need to read the essays in previous books in the series to fully understand them.

The stories were reprinted as accurately as possible. No attempt was made to standardize British and American spelling. Some words have undergone changes over the years—Shakespere instead of Shakespeare and to-morrow for tomorrow—they were left alone. Obvious mistakes of spelling and grammar were silently corrected, except in certain stated cases, and solid blocks of paragraphs were broken up to aid readability.

Acknowledgements

A great effort was made to determine the copyright status of these pieces and obtain permission to publish from the rightful copyright holders. If I have made a mistake, please contact me so that I may rectify the error.

As each volume went to press, I’m reminded again of how many people helped make this series larger and better than I could have done alone. Research assistant Scott Harkless provided rare and crucial stories. Denise Phillips at Hershey Public Library worked hard to acquire the books and articles I asked for. Peter Blau generously shared the fruits of his researches. Charles Press provided me with a shopping list from his Parodies and Pastiches Buzzing ’Round Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and happily filled in the gaps with extremely rare items from his researches.

Then there are the writers whose books led the way: Otto Penzler for The Big Book of Sherlock Holmes Stories; Bill Blackbeard for Sherlock Holmes in America; Frederic Dannay and Manfred Lee (Ellery Queen) for their ill-fated The Misadventures of Sherlock Holmes; Philip K. Jones for his massive (10,000 entries!) database of Sherlockian pastiches, parodies, and related fiction; John Gibson and Richard Lancelyn Green for My Evening With Sherlock Holmes and The Uncollected Sherlock Holmes; Paul D. Herbert for The Sincerest Form of Flattery; Peter Ridgway Watt and Joseph Green for The Alternative Sherlock Holmes: Pastiches, Parodies and Copies; The Sciolist Press, Donald K. Pollock, and the other editors behind The Baker Street Miscellanea.

By digitizing the nation’s newspapers and making them searchable, The National Library of Australia enabled me to find previously unknown parodies and research their local references so we can appreciate what was going on in New South Wales, Mudgee, and Perth.

Ian Schoenherr receives my thanks (again!) for contributing The Adventure of the Shattered Boudoir Glass for this volume.

Finally, my love to Teresa, wielder of the red pen and owner of my heart.

Got a parody?: If you have an uncollected Sherlock Holmes story that was published between 1888 and 1930, please let me know the title and author. If I don’t have it and can use it, you’ll earn a free trade paperback of the book it’ll appear in plus an acknowledgement inside! Email me at peschel@peschelpress.com or write to Peschel Press, P.O. Box 132, Hershey, PA 17033-0132.

Get the newsletter: If you want to learn more about my books, author events, my researches and the media I eat, sign up for the Peschel Press newsletter. You’ll get a chatty letter about what we’re publishing plus a glimpse behind the scenes at a growing publishing house. Visit either www.planetpeschel.com or www.peschelpress.com and look for the sign-up box.

1915

With his characteristic gusto, Conan Doyle threw himself into supporting Britain in World War I. Rejected from serving as a soldier at age 55, he continued drilling with a volunteer unit, going on route marches and even pulling a shift guarding German prisoners of war. As he did with the Boer War, he began a history of the conflict, soliciting letters from the generals and collecting information from the newspapers. He turned his notes into a lecture, and by March, his Great Battles of the War tour was taking him from Scotland to London.

In May, he received a grim confirmation of his prediction that German submarines would attack ships to starve Britain into surrendering. Without warning, the Lusitania was torpedoed off the coast of Ireland. Of the 1,962 passengers and crew, 1,191 died, including 128 Americans. Propaganda branded the Germans as barbarians, and the U.S. considered entering the war. Conan Doyle was criticized when reporters inside Germany quoted military sources claiming they got the idea from him. He wrote a letter defending himself, The Strand backed him up, and the stupid business, as he termed it blew over.

In June, The Valley of Fear was published in book form. As in A Study in Scarlet, Conan Doyle chose to tell two stories, one a murder solved by Sherlock Holmes, and then the events leading up to it that took place in Pennsylvania decades before. The Valley of Fear disappointed some fans who wanted a novel about Holmes, not half of a two-novella package.

Meanwhile, the war brought more tragedy to the family: in July the only son of sister Mary Doyle and E.W. Hornung was shot in the head and killed. Also killed in battle was Maj. Leslie Oldham, his other sister’s husband, and Alex Forbes, the son of his wife’s sister. Conan Doyle grieved and soldiered on, writing Mary that her son died a hero’s death and working Oldham’s name into his history. He could take fearful comfort that his younger brother Innes and his son Kingsley were still alive. As for his mother, the redoubtable Ma’am, the death of her first grandchild was a hard blow to suffer at 78. It would not be the last.

Publications: Holmes in The Strand: The Valley of Fear (Sept. 1914-May 1915). Holmes: The Valley of Fear (June).

Postum Ad

Anonymous

Postum should be a textbook example of how you can create a demand for a product that nobody knew they wanted. Created in 1895 by C.W. Post (1854-1914), the powdered drink consists of roasted wheat, wheat bran, flour, and molasses. It has no caffeine, no fat, no trans-fats, no salt, no preservatives, and no taste anyone desired. Backed by an ad campaign that alleged that coffee damaged your health, Postum made Post a fortune, and his company eventually became General Foods. Discontinued in 2007, Postum was licensed to a health-food company, which continues to sell the product online.

Holmes: "Did you observe, Watson, the trembling hand, the lack-lustre eye, the nervous attitude, the sallow skin, the fear of impending disaster? Clearly, that man is an inveterate coffee-drinker, and—

Watson: What he needs is POSTUM.

In Sheep’s Clothing

Anonymous

When the 3rd University and Public Schools Battalion Royal Fusiliers moved to the front, they became one of the first to publish a unit magazine, The Pow-Wow. Trench journals served a number of purposes: to pass the time in an amusing way, to discuss unofficial rumors, and to poke fun at the realities of military life, as this story did in the March 5 issue. The Royal Fusiliers (City of London Regiment) was active for 283 years (1685-1968), and a memorial to the 22,000 men who died in World War I stands in Holborn, central London.

By a happy coincidence, Corporal Holmes and I found ourselves on picquet duty together, for we are not in the same platoon.

I need scarcely say that I have always been an admirer of Holmes’s methods, and the news that we were to fulfil that particularly responsible position of picquet to the station proved that at last the authorities had given a belated recognition of his sleuth-hound abilities.

Holmes lay back with his feet on an empty milk can, idly puffing forth volumes of smoke and platitudes. Coincidence, my dear Watson, life is built up of coincidences.

Two soldiers and a civilian entered the booking office. At the demand for passes, two were produced and duly inspected. The civilian, however, proceeded with his head averted, his Homburg hat thrust far forward over his nose. He stooped to pick up his handkerchief which he had dropped near Holmes’s feet. As he did so, I saw Holmes’s eyes glitter in the darkness.

Did anything unusual strike you about that man? Holmes enquired at length.

"Nothing, except that he ought to be a soldier," I replied.

My dear Watson. He is one already, said Holmes calmly watching the effect of his words.

Their full significance gradually became clear to me.

"Mufti? I inquired at length. Holmes; you amaze me."

You remember the Spread Eagle affair, proceeded Holmes. This case has many points that closely resemble it. In the first place, the young man is of military age, a very rare sight, out of mufti, in this patriotic little town. Secondly, his behaviour was decidedly suspicious, arrogant yet timorous, and not in the least the conduct of a civilian whose mind is at ease.

But! I began. Holmes waved my objection aside.

And thirdly, he continued, "did you observe the colour of his handkerchief—khaki. I think the chain of evidence is now complete and all that remains to be done is to await the return of the law-breaker," he concluded, relighting his pipe.

Towards twelve the malingerer returned, looking securer, having further disguised himself with a pair of blue spectacles.

Private Jones, show your pass, said Holmes, smiling with grim satisfaction.

Dismay and guilt were written on every line of the defaulter’s face. Once more Holmes had proved himself omniscient.

*  *  *  *  *

How did you know his name? I asked after the incident had closed.

It was written clearly on his coat collar. I noticed it when he stooped to pick up his handkerchief. So simple, Watson.

P.S.—I have since heard that Private Jones is a member of Corporal Holmes’s section!!

(Strand Magazine, please copy.)

A Study in Handwriting

Ring Lardner

Illustrations by Quin Hall

The Chicago Tribune’s In the Wake of the News column has been a mainstay in the paper since 1907. Although primarily devoted to sports, columnists are permitted to ruminate on anything, as Ring Lardner (1885-1933) did in the March 19 issue. Perhaps inspired by an actual letter he received, Ring used this opportunity to poke a little fun at his own expense. Quin Hall (1884-1968) had a long career as a newspaper illustrator and cartoonist (Punkin’ Head Pete and The Doolittles).

I cannot rejoice over the ever-increasing popularity of the typewriter, said Sherlock Holmes, as he lounged in the most comfortable chair provided by our Baker Street landlady, and refilled, for the sixth time within an hour, a particularly malodorous pipe. It is spoiling one of the most absorbing ways of studying the human race. One can judge from a typewritten letter very little concerning its author; merely whether or not he is an expert with the machine. But a man’s handwriting will tell the careful student the writer’s likes and dislikes as plainly as he could state them himself, to say nothing of his occupation, his characteristics, his immense thoughts, his—

Do you mean to state, I interrupted, that you can accurately describe a man’s vocation, his traits, his opinions, by a study of his handwriting?

Just so, returned my companion with a smile, and if you would look into it, I am sure you would find it as interesting a study as your medicine and surgery.

I am sure I would find it all bosh, I returned shortly.

Try it and see, said Holmes, and thrusting his long, tapering fingers into the inside pocket of his lounging coat, he drew forth a letter. Glance at this, handing it to me, and tell me what you learn of the writer.

I spread the missive on my knee and looked at it for perhaps five minutes. It was written on hotel stationery in a graceful, legible hand, and read:

"Editor Chicago Tribune: Of all the silly tommy rot and cheap Barrel House wit ever seen or heard that contained under the heading ‘In the Wake of the News’ has them all beaten to a frazzle.

"It appears to me that R.W. L— — — would make a good wit at a real wake and were he the corpse I’d say thank God.

"I’ve decided to switch to another paper, and talking the matter over with other fellow drummers the general opinion seems to be the same. Namely L— — — is a ‘dead one.’

Yours very truly,— — —.

Well, said Holmes at length, what do you make of him?

Nothing, I returned, except that he writes clearly and legibly.

O, Watson, Watson! exclaimed my companion, and threw up his hands in mock horror. Where are your brains?

In my head, I hope, I said with asperity. But I did not make any ridiculous assertion as to my clairvoyant powers. It was you, I believe, who started the discussion. And it is surely your duty to make good your claim or admit that you were talking nonsense, as I believe to be the case.

Holmes smiled quietly and, reaching over, took back the letter he had given me. He pondered it in silence for some moments before he spoke.

Watson, he said, "it is as far from nonsense as anything could be. This power or knack or whatever you choose to call it has served me in good stead in some of my most important cases. But I see that you are still a skeptic and it is therefore my part to convert you. I have already made my study of this particular letter and will state my conclusions to you as briefly as I can.

"To begin with, I see that the writer is or recently has been in Sheboygan, Wisconsin. He has a bit of spare time on his hands, either while stopping at the Grand hotel, which is centrally located and homelike, owned by R.J. Warner and protected by the electric fire alarm system, or right afterwards. He is not a personal friend of the editor of The Tribune called ‘In the Wake of the News.’ He is hard-hearted. He is religious. He makes his decisions only after careful thought and discussion. He is democratic. He is interested in the opinion of his fellows and not above talking with them. He is a salesman who travels. He is inconsiderate. I think that is about all. Do you follow me?"

Holmes, you are wonderful! I exclaimed. But surely you will tell me how you reached some of your conclusions. For instance, how do you deduce that the writer is inconsiderate?

From his handwriting, of course, returned my companion. Study the formation of the letters in this sentence: ‘I’ve decided to switch to another paper.’ If he were considerate of the feelings of others, would he be so blunt with the person addressed? Wouldn’t he rather allow the editor to find out gradually that he was no longer a subscriber?

It is as clear as day, I admitted. And how long did it take you to master this trick?

Trick! said Holmes, disgustedly scratching the bridge of his aquiline nose with a gold-handled toothpick.

The ’Varsity Letter

Another (for this occasion only) Return of Sherlock Holmes

Anonymous

The importance of a varsity letter could not be overstated in this story that appeared in the April 17 issue of Puck. It was introduced at Harvard in 1865 to designate the members of the baseball and football teams. They were to be worn for the year and then returned, unless the player participated in the game against arch-rivals Yale or Princeton. The practice spread to other universities, who would award them for excellence in a particular sport. They were considered so important that Pearson’s magazine this same month, ran The ’Varsity Letter Mystery by Robert Emmet MacAlarney (1873-1945). In it, a female private detective known only as The Skirt foils a butler seeking revenge on his master, Yale’s football coach, because he denied his son a chance at a letter and who subsequently died! As a police detective observed, A ’varsity letter means a lot of things—in New Haven.

It was shortly after Holmes’s return from Thibet, where he had so brilliantly solved the mystery of the six blue poker chips in the palace of the Grand Llama. He had just breakfasted on a seventy per cent solution of cocaine and was resting in the basket chair when a commotion arose in Baker Street without. I ran to the window.

Good heavens, Holmes! I cried, some poor fellow has been tarred and feathered. A crowd is following him and, yes, he is coming here!

A violent pull at the bell confirmed my words, and the next minute there literally fell into our rooms the unfortunate man. He was completely exhausted and in an instant Holmes had the brandy flask to his lips.

You are from America, I see, said Holmes, soothingly.

The man—as near as we could judge he was a very young man, a mere boy—gasped with astonishment, sputtered, and attempted to speak.

Tut! interrupted Holmes, anticipating his question. It is really very simple. The feathers with which you are covered belong to a breed of chickens raised only in the vicinity of Umpterino, Ohio. You should read my little monograph on chicken feathers, Watson.

It is as you say, Mr. Holmes, gasped our uncomfortable visitor. My name is Hector Starboob. I am a student, a senior, at Umpterino University. Or I was until last—

And I note, said Holmes, in the same soothing manner, that you lost no time in coming to me.

Good heavens, Holmes, I ejaculated, this is mar—

My room-mate checked me with a gesture of impatience.

The tar under the feathers is still soft, he said. Surely, it is simple.

I want you to find them for me, to find the villains, Mr. Holmes! foamed our visitor, now revived by the brandy’s warming influence. They came to my room in the dead of night, and without the aid of a light they blindfolded and bound me. Then they dragged me outside and gave me this coating of tar and feathers, the cowards!

They were hazing you? queried Holmes.

I am a senior, Mr. Holmes, said the victim, with dignity. "It is contrary to custom to haze seniors. And not only am I a senior at Umpterino, but I am an honor man in all my courses. I lead my classes. I excel in every study.

Had you enemies? Is there anyone you suspect?

No; no one.

No unpleasantness of any sort?

None whatever. There is only one that I recall, and that seems too trivial to mention.

Holmes rubbed his hands in ecstasy.

Then by all means mention it, he said, with a characteristic smile. Watson, draw our friend’s chair a trifle further from the fire. I note his feathers are getting singed. Now, Mr. Hector Starboob, proceed.

"Well, Mr. Holmes, as I told you, the matter seems trivial, but since you ask me I will mention it. The afternoon of the day I was so shamefully handled I walked across the college campus, wearing a sweater bearing the ’varsity letter."

You are an athlete, then?

"No, Mr. Holmes, on the contrary; and that brings me right to the point. I am not an athlete. I never took part in an athletic competition in my life. But it occurred to me the other day that a fellow who lead his classes, who was an honor man in all his courses, and who had the highest marks of any man in college, was as much entitled to wear the ’varsity U as anybody at Umpterino. It seemed to me so perfectly obvious that I cut a large U out of blue cloth and sewed it on a white sweater and went out."

Here Holmes, with a slight shake of his head, reached across to the coal scuttle, where we kept almost anything but coal, and extracted therefrom our pad of blank cablegrams, on one of which he scribbled a few penciled words.

"It seemed to me, you see, Mr. Holmes, so perfectly reasonable. A chap who excelled in his studies seemed to me to be as much entitled to wear the ’varsity letter as a—as a pole vaulter, for instance, or a—or a hammer thrower. It seemed to me that a college should be as proud of an honor student as it is of an honor athlete, and as willing to acknowledge that he belongs to it. Now that you speak of it, I do recall that several words were spoken to me as I crossed the Campus that were not precisely—er—friendly, but it never struck me that—"

Here Mr. Hector Starboob fell to picking absently at his feathers, and there was a period of awkward silence all around.

Watson, said Holmes, quietly, "take this down to the cable office and file it. Personally, I haven’t the energy. It is a message to the health authorities at Umpterino, Ohio, telling them we have safely got the lunatic they are undoubtedly looking for.

"Meanwhile, it’s a case for you, my dear Doctor, not for me. The man is hopelessly insane. He would be deemed so, beyond question, in any American college town."

With a shrug of his shoulders, Holmes reached for the cocaine bottle, and, rolling up his sleeves, prepared for another session with the needle.

Everything is so frightfully commonplace, Watson, he sighed.

The Adventure of the Clothes-Line

Carolyn Wells

Illustrations by Frederic Dorr Steele

Carolyn Wells (1869-1942) was a prolific author and poet who produced more than 170 titles over four decades, including many Holmes-related stories. Her ode to 221B Baker Street appears in the 1905-1909 edition of the Casebook series.

Among her pastiches were five stories in the Society of Infallible Detectives, a sort of super group of the era’s greatest detectives, with Sherlock as the president, of course. This story appeared in the May issue of The Century magazine. Another can be found in the 1917 chapter, and the rest in the 1900-1914 edition.

Frederic Dorr Steele (1873-1944) was an American illustrator who created an iconic Holmes for U.S. readers much like what Sidney Paget did in Britain. He is credited with associating Holmes with the calabash pipe and deerstalker.

The members of the Society of Infallible Detectives were just sitting around and being socially infallible in their rooms in Fakir Street, when President Holmes strode in. He was much saturniner than usual, and the others at once deduced there was something toward.

And it’s this, said Holmes, perceiving that they had perceived it. A reward is offered for the solution of a great mystery so great, my colleagues, that I fear none of you will be able to solve it, or even to help me in the marvelous work I shall do when ferreting it out.

Humph! grunted the Thinking Machine, riveting his steel-blue eyes upon the speaker.

He voices all our sentiments, said Raffles, with his winning smile. Fire away, Holmes. What’s the prob?

"To explain a most mysterious proceeding down on the East Side."

He was much saturniner than usual, and the others at once deduced there was something toward.

Though a tall man, Holmes spoke shortly, for he was peeved at the inattentive attitude of his collection of colleagues. But of course he still had his Watson, so he put up with the indifference of the rest of the cold world.

Aren’t all proceedings down on the East Side mysterious? asked Arsene Lupin with an aristocratic look.

Holmes passed his brow wearily under his hand.

Inspector Spyer, he said, was riding on the Elevated Road—one of the small numbered Avenues when, as he passed a tenement-house district, he saw a clothes-line strung from one high window to another across a courtyard.

Was it Monday? asked the Thinking Machine, who for the moment was thinking he was a washing machine.

That doesn’t matter. About the middle of the line was suspended—

By clothes-pins? asked two or three of the Infallibles at once.

Was suspended a beautiful woman.

Hanged?

No. Do listen! She hung by her hands and was evidently trying to cross from one house to the other. By her exhausted and agonized face, the inspector feared she could not hold on much longer. He sprang from his seat to rush to her assistance, but the train had already started, and he was too late to get off.

What was she doing there? Did she fall? What did she look like? and various similar nonsensical queries fell from the lips of the great detectives.

Be silent, and I will tell you all the known facts. She was a society woman, it is clear, for she was robed in a chiffon evening gown, one of those roll-top things. She wore rich jewelry and dainty slippers with jeweled buckles. Her hair, unloosed from its moorings, hung in heavy masses far down her back.

How extraordinary! What does it all mean? asked M. Dupin, ever straightforward of speech.

I don’t know yet, answered Holmes, honestly. I’ve studied the matter only a few months. But I will find out, if I have to raze the whole tenement block. There must be a clue somewhere.

Marvelous! Holmes, marvelous! said a phonograph in the corner, which Watson had fixed up, as he had to go out.

The police have asked us to take up the case and have offered a reward for its solution. Find out who was the lady, what she was doing, and why she did it.

Are there any clues? asked M. Vidocq, while M. Lecoq said simultaneously, Any footprints?

There is one footprint; no other clue.

Where is the footprint?

On the ground, right under where the lady was hanging.

But you said the rope was high from the ground.

More than a hundred feet.

And she stepped down and made a single footprint. Strange! Quite strange! and the Thinking Machine shook his yellow old head.

She did nothing of the sort, said Holmes, petulantly. If you fellows would listen, you might hear something. The occupants of the tenement houses have been questioned. But, as it turns out, none of them chanced to be at home at the time of the occurrence. There was a parade in the next street, and they had all gone to see it.

Had a light snow fallen the night before? asked Lecoq, eagerly.

Yes, of course, answered Holmes. How could we know anything, else? Well, the lady had dropped her slipper, and although the slipper was not found, it having been annexed by the tenement people who came home first, I had a chance to study the footprint. The slipper was a two and a half D. It was too small for her.

The lady had dropped her slipper.

How do you know?

Women always wear slippers too small for them.

Then how did she come to drop it off? This from Raffles, triumphantly.

Holmes looked at him pityingly.

She kicked it off because it was too tight. Women always kick off their slippers when playing bridge or in an opera box or at a dinner.

And always when they’re crossing a clothes-line? This in Lupin’s most sarcastic vein.

Naturally, said Holmes, with a taciturnine frown. The footprint clearly denotes a lady of wealth and fashion, somewhat short of stature, and weighing about one hundred and sixty. She was of an animated nature.

Suspended animation, put in Luther Trant, wittily, and Scientific Sprague added, Like the Coffin of Damocles, or whoever it was.

But Holmes frowned on their light-headedness.

We must find out what it all means, he said in his gloomiest way. I have a tracing of the footprint.

I wonder if my seismospygmograph would work on it, mused Trant.

I am the Prince of Footprints, declared Lecoq, pompously. I will solve the mystery.

Do your best, all of you, said their illustrious president. I fear you can do little; these things are unintelligible to the unintelligent. But study on it, and meet here again one week from tonight, with your answers neatly typewritten on one side of the paper.

The Infallible Detectives started off, each affecting a jaunty sanguineness of demeanor, which did not in the least impress their president, who was used to sanguinary impressions.

They spent their allotted seven days in the study of the problem; and a lot of the seven nights, too, for they wanted to delve into the baffling secret by sun or candlelight, as dear Mrs. Browning so poetically puts it.

And when the week had fled, the Infallibles again gathered in the Fakir Street sanctum, each face wearing the smug smirk and smile of one who had quested a successful quest and was about to accept his just reward.

And now, said President Holmes, as nothing can be hid from the Infallible Detectives, I assume we have all discovered why the lady hung from the clothes-line above that deep and dangerous chasm of a tenement courtyard.

We have, replied his colleagues, in varying tones of pride, conceit, and mock modesty.

I cannot think, went on the hawk-like voice, that you have, any of you, stumbled upon the real solution of the mystery; but I will listen to your amateur attempts.

As the oldest member of our organization, I will tell my solution first, said Vidocq, calmly. I have not been able to find the lady, but I am convinced that she was merely an expert trapezist or tight-rope walker, practising a new trick to amaze her Coney Island audiences.

Nonsense! cried Holmes. In that case the lady would have worn tights or fleshings. We are told she was in full evening dress of the smartest set.

Arsene Lupin spoke next.

It’s too easy, he said boredly; she was a typist or stenographer who had been annoyed by attentions from her employer, and was trying to escape from the brute.

Again I call your attention to her costume, said Holmes, with a look of intolerance on his finely cold-chiseled face.

That’s all right, returned Lupin, easily. Those girls dress every old way! I’ve seen ’em. They don’t think anything of evening clothes at their work.

Humph! said the Thinking Machine, and the others all agreed with him.

Next, said Holmes, sternly.

I’m next, said Lecoq. "I submit that the lady escaped from a near-by lunatic asylum. She had the illusion that she was an old overcoat and the moths had got at her. So of course she hung herself on the clothes-line. This theory of lunacy also accounts for the fact that the lady’s hair was down like Ophelia’s, you know."

It would have been easier for her to swallow a few good moth balls, said Holmes, looking at Lecoq in stormy silence. "Mr. Gryce, you are an experienced deducer; what did you conclude?"

Mr. Gryce glued his eyes to his right boot toe, after his celebrated habit. I make out she was a-slumming. You know, all the best ladies are keen about it. And I feel that she belonged to the Cult for the Betterment of Clothes-lines. She was by way of being a tester. She had to go across them hand over hand, and if they bore her weight, they were passed by the censor.

And if they didn’t?

Apparently that predicament had not occurred at the time of our problem, and so cannot be considered.

I think Gryce is right about the slumming, remarked Luther Trant, but the reason for the lady hanging from the clothes-line is the imperative necessity she felt for a thorough airing, after her tenemental visitations; there is a certain tenement scent, if I may express it, that requires ozone in quantities.

You’re too material, said the Thinking Machine, with a faraway look in his weak, blue