“‘Because I’ve had experience,’ replied the witness. ‘I’ve seen the time when he was everywhere all at once; that’s why I say he’s more than one dorg. If he’d been only one dorg he couldn’t have been anywhere else than where he was.’

“‘When was that?’

“‘When I lassoed him.’

“‘Him?’ remonstrated Coke.

“‘Yes,’ said the witness. ‘I only caught one of him, and then the other two took a hand.’

“‘Ah, the other two,’ said Coke. ‘You know dogs when you see them?’

“‘I do, and he was all of ‘em in a bunch,’ replied the witness.

“‘Your witness,’ said Coke.

“‘My friend,’ said Catiline, rising quietly. ‘How many men are you?’

“‘One, sir,’ was the answer.

“‘Have you ever been in two places at once?’

“‘Yes, sir.’

“‘When was that?’

“‘When I was in jail and in London all at the same time.’

“‘Very good; but were you in two places on the day of this attack upon you by Cerberus?’

“‘No, sir. I wish I had been. I’d have stayed in the other place.’

“‘Then if you were in but one place yourself, how do you know that Cerberus was in more than one place?’

“‘Well, I guess if you—’

“‘Answer the question,’ said Catiline.

“‘Oh, well—of course—’

“‘Of course,’ echoed Catiline. ‘That’s it, your honor; it is only “of course,”—and I rest my case. We have no witnesses to call. We have proven by their own witnesses that there is no evidence of Cerberus being more than one dog.’

“You ought to have heard the cheers as Catiline sat down,” continued Boswell. “As for poor Coke, he was regularly knocked out, but he rose up to sum up his case as best he could. Blackstone, however, stopped him right at the beginning.

“‘The counsel for the plaintiff might as well sit down,’ he said, ‘and save his breath. I’ve decided this case in favor of the defendant long ago. It is plain to every one that Cerberus is only one dog, in spite of his many talents and manifest ability to be in several places at once, and inasmuch as the tax which is sued for is merely a dog-tax and not a poll-tax, I must render judgment for the defendants, with costs. Next case.’

“And the city of Cimmeria was thrown out of court,” concluded Boswell. “Interesting, eh?”

“Very,” said I. “But how will this affect Blackstone? Isn’t he a City Judge?”

“No,” replied Boswell; “he was, but his term expired this morning, and this afternoon Apollyon appointed him Chief Justice of the Supreme Court of Hades.”

VIII. A HAND-BOOK TO HADES

“Boswell,” said I, the other night, as the machine began to click nervously. “I have just received a letter from an unknown friend in Hawaii who wants to know how the prize-fight between Samson and Goliath came out that time when Kidd and his pirate crew stole the House-Boat on the Styx.”

“Just wait a minute, please,” the machine responded. “I am very busy just now mapping out the itinerary of the first series of the Boswell Personally Conducted Tours you suggested some time ago. I laid that whole proposition before the Entertainment Committee of the Associated Shades, and they have resolved unanimously to charter the Ex-Great Eastern from the Styx Navigation Company, and return to the scenes of their former glory, devoting a year to it.”

“Going to take their wives?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” Boswell replied. “That is a matter outside of the jurisdiction of the committee and must be decided by a full vote of the club. I hope they will, however. As manager of the enterprise I need assistance, and there are some of the men who can’t be managed by anybody except their wives, or mothers-in-law, anyhow. I’ll be through in a few minutes. Meanwhile let me hand you the latest product of the Boswell press.”

With this the genial spirit produced from an invisible pocket a red-covered book bearing the delicious title of “Baedeker’s Hades: A Hand-book for Travellers,” which has entirely superseded, according to the advertisement on the fly-leaves, such books as Virgil and Dante’s Inferno as the best guide to the lower regions, as well it might, for it appeared on perusal to have been prepared with as much care as one of the more material guide-books of the same publisher, which so greatly assist travellers on this side of the Stygian River.

Some time, if Boswell will permit, I shall endeavor to have this little volume published in this country since it contains many valuable hints to the man of a roving disposition, or for the stay-at-home, for that matter, for all roads lead to Hades. For instance, we do not find in previous guide-books, like Dante’s Inferno, any references whatsoever to the languages it is well to know before taking the Stygian tour; to the kind of money needed, or its quantity per capita; no allusion to the necessity of passports is found in Dante or Virgil; custom-house requirements are ignored by these authors; no statements as to the kind of clothing needed, the quality of the hotels—nor indeed any real information of vital importance to the traveller is to be found in the older books. In Baedeker’s Hades, on the other hand, all these subjects are exhaustively treated, together with a very comprehensive series of chapters on “Stygian Wines,” “Climate,” and “Hellish Art”—the expression is not mine—and other topics of essential interest.

And of what suggestive quality was this little book. Who would ever have guessed from a perusal of Dante that as Hades is the place of departed spirits so also is it the ultimate resting-place of all other departed things. What delightful anticipations are there in the idea of a visit to the Alexandrian library, now suitably housed on the south side of Apollyon Square, Cimmeria, in a building that would drive the trustees of the Boston Public Library into envious despair, even though living Bacchantes are found daily improving their minds in the recesses of its commodious alcoves! What joyous feelings it gives one to think of visiting the navy-yards of Tyre and finding there the ships concerning the whereabouts of which poets have vainly asked questions for ages! Who would ever dream that the question of the balladist, himself an able dreamer concerning classic things, “Where are the Cities of Old Time,” could ever find its answer in a simple guide-book telling us where Carthage is, where Troy and all the lost cities of antiquity!

Then the details of amusements in this wonderful country—who could gather aught of these from the Italian poet? The theatres of Gehenna, with “Hamlet” produced under the joint direction of Shakespeare and the Prince of Denmark himself, the great Zoo of Sheolia, with Jumbo, and the famous woolly horse of earlier days, not to mention the long series of menageries which have passed over the dark river in the ages now forgotten; the hanging gardens of Babylon, where the picnicking element of Hades flock week after week, chuting the chutes, and clambering joyously in and out of the Trojan Horse, now set up in all its majesty therein, with bowling-alleys on its roof, elevators in its legs, and the original Ferris-wheel in its head; the freak museums in the densely populated sections of the large cities, where Hop o’ my Thumb and Jack the Giant Killer are exhibited day after day alongside of the great ogres they have killed; the opera-house, with Siegfried himself singing, supported by the real Brunhild and the original, bona fide dragon Fafnir, running of his own motive power, and breathing actual fire and smoke without the aid of a steam-engine and a plumber to connect him therewith before he can go out upon the stage to engage Siegfried in deadly combat.

For the information contained in this last item alone, even if the book had no other virtue, it would be worthy of careful perusal from the opening paragraph on language, to the last, dealing with the descent into the Vitriol Reservoir at Gehenna. The account of the feeding of Fafnir, to which admission can be had on payment of ten oboli, beginning with a puree of kerosene, followed by a half-dozen cartridges on the half-shell, an entree of nitro-glycerine, a solid roast of cannel-coal, and a salad of gun-cotton, with a mayonnaise dressing of alcohol and a pinch of powder, topped off with a demi-tasse of benzine and a box of matches to keep the fires of his spirit going, is one of the most moving things I have ever read, and yet it may be said without fear of contradiction that until this guide-book was prepared very few of the Stygian tourists have imagined that there was such a sight to be seen. I have gone carefully over Dante, Virgil, and the works of Andrew Lang, and have found no reference whatsoever in the pages of any of these talented persons to this marvellous spectacle which takes place three times a day, and which I doubt not results in a performance of Siegfried for the delectation of the music lovers of Hades, which is beyond the power of the human mind to conceive.

The hand-book has an added virtue, which distinguishes it from any other that I have ever seen, in that it is anecdotal in style at times where an anecdote is available and appropriate. In connection with this same Fafnir, as showing how necessary it is for the tourist to be careful of his personal safety in Hades, it is related that upon one occasion the keeper of the dragon having taken a grudge against Siegfried for some unintentional slight, fed Fafnir upon Roman-candles and a sky-rocket, with the result that in the fight between the hero and the demon of the wood the Siegfried was seriously injured by the red, white, and blue balls of fire which the dragon breathed out upon him, while the sky-rocket flew out into the audience and struck a young man in the top gallery, knocking him senseless, the stick falling into a grand-tier box and impaling one of the best known social lights of Cimmeria. “Therefore,” adds the astute editor of the hand-book, “on Siegfried nights it were well if the tourist were to go provided with an asbestos umbrella for use in case of an emergency of a similar nature.”

In that portion of the book devoted to the trip up the river Styx the legends surpass any of the Rhine stories in dramatic interest, because, according to Commodore Charon’s excursion system, the tourist can step ashore and see the chief actors in them, who for a consideration will give a full-dress rehearsal of the legendary acts for which they have been famous. The sirens of the Stygian Lorelei, for instance, sit on an eminence not far above the city of Cimmeria, and make a profession of luring people ashore and giving away at so much per head locks of their hair for remembrance’ sake, all of which makes of the Stygian trip a thing of far greater interest than that of the Rhine.

It had been my intention to make a few extracts from this portion of the volume showing later developments in the legends of the Drachenfels, and others of more than ordinary interest, but I find that with the departure of Boswell for the night the treasured hand-book disappeared with him; but, as I have already stated, if I can secure his consent to do so I will some day have the book copied off on more material substance than that employed in the original manuscript, so that the useful little tome may be printed and scattered broadcast over a waiting and appreciative world. I may as well state here, too, that I have taken the precaution to have the title “Baedeker’s Hades” and its contents copyrighted, so that any pirate who recognizes the value of the scheme will attempt to pirate the work at his peril.

Hardly had I finished the chapter on the legends of the Styx when Boswell broke in upon me with: “Well, how do you like it?”

“It’s great,” I said. “May I keep it?”

“You may if you can,” he laughed. “But I fancy it can’t withstand the rigors of this climate any more than an unfireproof copy of one of your books could stand the caniculars of ours.”

His words were soon to be verified, for as soon as he left me the book vanished, but whether it went off into thin air or was repocketed by the departing Boswell I am not entirely certain.

“What was it you asked me about Samson and Goliath?” Boswell observed, as he gathered up his manuscript from the floor beside the Enchanted Typewriter. “Whether they’d ever been in Honolulu?”

“No,” I replied. “I got a letter from Hawaii the other day asking for the result of the prize-fight the day Kidd ran off with the house-boat.”

“Oh,” replied Boswell. “That? Why, ah, Samson won hands down, but only because they played according to latter-day rules. If it had been a regular knock-out fight, like the contests in the old days of the ring when it was in its prime, Goliath could have managed him with one hand; but the Samson backers played a sharp game on the Philistine by having the most recently amended Queensbury rules adopted, and Goliath wasn’t in it five minutes after Samson opened his mouth.”

“I don’t think I understand,” said I.

“Plain enough,” explained Boswell. “Goliath didn’t know what the modern rules were, but he thought a fight was a fight under any rules, so, like a decent chap, he agreed, and when he found that it was nothing but a talking-match he’d got into he fainted. He never was good at expressing himself fluently. Samson talked him down in two rounds, just as he did the other Philistines in the early days on earth.”

I laughed. “You’re slightly off there,” I said. “That was a stand-up-and-be-knocked-down fight, wasn’t it? He used the jawbone of an ass?”

“Very true,” observed Boswell, “but it is evident that it is you who are slightly off. You haven’t kept up with the higher criticism. It has been proven scientifically that not only did the whale not swallow Jonah, but that Samson’s great feat against the Philistines was comparable only to the achievements of your modern senators. He talked them to death.”

“Then why jawbone of an ass?” I cried.

“Samson was an ass,” replied Boswell. “They prove that by the temple episode, for you see if he hadn’t been one he’d have got out of the building before yanking the foundations from under it. I tell you, old chap, this higher criticism is a great thing, and as logical as death itself.”

And with this Boswell left me.

I sincerely hope that the result of the fight will prove as satisfactory to my friend in Hawaii as it was to me; for while I have no particular admiration for Samson, I have always rejoiced to hear of the discomfitures of Goliath, who, so far as I have been able to ascertain, was not only not a gentleman, but, in addition, had no more regard for the rights of others than a member of the New York police force or the editor of a Sunday newspaper with a thirst for sensation.

IX. SHERLOCK HOLMES AGAIN

I had intended asking Boswell what had become of my copy of the Baedeker’s Hades when he next returned, but the output of the machine that evening so interested me that the hand-book was entirely forgotten. If there ever was a hero in this world who could compare with D’Artagnan in my estimation for sheer ability in a given line that hero was Sherlock Holmes. With D’Artagnan and Holmes for my companions I think I could pass the balance of my days in absolute contentment, no matter what woful things might befall me. So it was that, when I next heard the tapping keys and dulcet bell of my Enchanted Type-writer, and, after listening intently for a moment, realized that my friend Boswell was making a copy of a Sherlock Holmes Memoir thereon for his next Sunday’s paper, all thought of the interesting little red book of the last meeting flew out of my head. I rose quickly from my couch at the first sounding of the gong.

“Got a Holmes story, eh?” I said, walking to his side, and gazing eagerly over the spot where his shoulder should have been.

“I have that, and it’s a winner,” he replied, enthusiastically. “If you don’t believe it, read it. I’ll have it copied in about two minutes.”

“I’ll do both,” I said. “I believe all the Sherlock Holmes stories I read. It is so much pleasanter to believe them true. If they weren’t true they wouldn’t be so wonderful.”

With this I picked up the first page of the manuscript and shortly after Boswell presented me with the balance, whereon I read the following extraordinary tale:

A MYSTERY SOLVED

A WONDERFUL ACHIEVEMENT IN FERRETING

From Advance Sheets of

MEMOIRS I REMEMBER

BY

SHERLOCK HOLMES, ESQ

Ferreter Extraordinary by Special Appointment to his Majesty Apollyon

—–

WHO THE LADY WAS!

It was not many days after my solution of the Missing Diamond of the Nizam of Jigamaree Mystery that I was called upon to take up a case which has baffled at least one person for some ten or eleven centuries. The reader will remember the mystery of the missing diamond—the largest known in all history, which the Nizam of Jigamaree brought from India to present to the Queen of England, on the occasion of her diamond jubilee. I had been dead three years at the time, but, by a special dispensation of his Imperial Highness Apollyon, was permitted to return incog to London for the jubilee season, where it so happened that I put up at the same lodging-house as that occupied by the Nizam and his suite. We sat opposite each other at table d’hote, and for at least three weeks previous to the losing of his treasure the Indian prince was very morose, and it was very difficult to get him to speak. I was not supposed to know, nor, indeed, was any one else, for that matter, at the lodging-house, that the Nizam was so exalted a personage. He like myself was travelling incog and was known to the world as Mr. Wilkins, of Calcutta—a very wise precaution, inasmuch as he had in his possession a gem valued at a million and a half of dollars. I recognized him at once, however, by his unlikeness to a wood-cut that had been appearing in the American Sunday newspapers, labelled with his name, as well as by the extraordinary lantern which he had on his bicycle, a lantern which to the uneducated eye was no more than an ordinary lamp, but which to an eye like mine, familiar with gems, had for its crystal lens nothing more nor less than the famous stone which he had brought for her Majesty the Queen, his imperial sovereign. There are few people who can tell diamonds from plate-glass under any circumstances, and Mr. Wilkins, otherwise the Nizam, realizing this fact, had taken this bold method of secreting his treasure. Of course, the moment I perceived the quality of the man’s lamp I knew at once who Mr. Wilkins was, and I determined to have a little innocent diversion at his expense.

“It has been a fine day, Mr. Wilkins,” said I one evening over the pate.

“Yes,” he replied, wearily. “Very—but somehow or other I’m depressed to-night.”

“Too bad,” I said, lightly, “but there are others. There’s that poor Nizam of Jigamaree, for instance—poor devil, he must be the bluest brown man that ever lived.”

Wilkins started nervously as I mentioned the prince by name.

“Wh-why do you think that?” he asked, nervously fingering his butter-knife.

“It’s tough luck to have to give away a diamond that’s worth three or four times as much as the Koh-i-noor,” I said. “Suppose you owned a stone like that. Would you care to give it away?”

“Not by a damn sight!” cried Wilkins, forcibly, and I noticed great tears gathering in his eyes.

“Still, he can’t help himself, I suppose,” I said, gazing abruptly at his scarf-pin. “That is, he doesn’t KNOW that he can. The Queen expects it. It’s been announced, and now the poor devil can’t get out of it—though I’ll tell you, Mr. Wilkins, if I were the Nizam of Jigamaree, I’d get out of it in ten seconds.”

I winked at him significantly. He looked at me blankly.

“Yes, sir,” I added, merely to arouse him, “in just ten seconds! Ten short, beautiful seconds.”

“Mr. Postlethwaite,” said the Nizam—Postlethwaite was the name I was travelling under—“Mr. Postlethwaite,” said the Nizam—otherwise Wilkins—“your remarks interest me greatly.” His face wreathed with a smile that I had never before seen there. “I have thought as you do in regard to this poor Indian prince, but I must confess I don’t see how he can get out of giving the Queen that diamond. Have a cigar, Mr. Postlethwaite, and, waiter, bring us a triple magnum of champagne. Do you really think, Mr. Postlethwaite, that there is a way out of it? If you would like a ticket to Westminster for the ceremony, there are a half-dozen.”

He tossed six tickets for seats among the crowned heads across the table to me. His eagerness was almost too painful to witness.

“Thank you,” said I, calmly pocketing the tickets, for they were of rare value at that time. “The way out of it is very simple.”

“Indeed, Mr. Postlethwaite,” said he, trying to keep cool. “Ah—are you interested in rubies, sir? There are a few which I should be pleased to have you accept”—and with that over came a handful of precious stones each worth a fortune. These also I pocketed as I replied:

“Why, certainly; if I were the Nizam,” said I, “I’d lose that diamond.”

A shade of disappointment came over Mr. Wilkins’s face.

“Lose it? How? Where?” he asked, with a frown.

“Yes. Lose it. Any way I could. As for the place where it should be lost, any old place will do as long as it is where he can find it again when he gets back home. He might leave it in his other clothes, or—”

“Make that two triple magnums, waiter,” cried Mr. Wilkins, excitedly, interrupting me. “Postlethwaite, you’re a genius, and if you ever want a house and lot in Calcutta, just let me know and they’re yours.”

You never saw such a change come over a man in all your life. Where he had been all gloom before, he was now all smiles and jollity, and from that time on to his return to India Mr. Wilkins was as happy as a school-boy at the beginning of vacation. The next day the diamond was lost, and whoever may have it at this moment, the British Crown is not in possession of the Jigamaree gem.

But, as my friend Terence Mulvaney says, that is another story. It is of the mystery immediately following this concerning which I have set out to write.

I was sitting one day in my office on Apollyon Square opposite the Alexandrian library, smoking an absinthe cigarette, which I had rolled myself from my special mixture consisting of two parts tobacco, one part hasheesh, one part of opium dampened with a liqueur glass of absinthe, when an excited knock sounded upon my door.

“Come in,” I cried, adopting the usual formula.

The door opened and a beautiful woman stood before me clad in most regal garments, robust of figure, yet extremely pale. It seemed to me that I had seen her somewhere before, yet for a time I could not place her.

“Mr. Sherlock Holmes?” said she, in deliciously musical tones, which, singular to relate, she emitted in a fashion suggestive of a recitative passage in an opera.

“The same,” said I, bowing with my accustomed courtesy.

“The ferret?” she sang, in staccato tones which were ravishing to my musical soul.

I laughed. “That term has been applied to me, madame,” said I, chanting my answer as best I could. “For myself, however, I prefer to assume the more modest title of detective. I can work with or without clues, and have never yet been baffled. I know who wrote the Junius letters, and upon occasions have been known to see through a stone wall with my naked eye. What can I do for you?”

“Tell me who I am!” she cried, tragically, taking the centre of the room and gesticulating wildly.

“Well—really, madame,” I replied. “You didn’t send up any card—”

“Ah!” she sneered. “This is what your vaunted prowess amounts to, eh? Ha! Do you suppose if I had a card with my name on it I’d have come to you to inquire who I am? I can read a card as well as you can, Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”

“Then, as I understand it, madame,” I put in, “you have suddenly forgotten your identity and wish me to—”

“Nothing of the sort. I have forgotten nothing. I never knew for certain who I am. I have an impression, but it is based only on hearsay evidence,” she interrupted.

For a moment I was fairly puzzled. Still I did not wish to let her know this, and so going behind my screen and taking a capsule full of cocaine to steady my nerves, I gained a moment to think. Returning, I said:

“This really is child’s play for me, madame. It won’t take more than a week to find out who you are, and possibly, if you have any clews at all to your identity, I may be able to solve this mystery in a day.”

“I have only three,” she answered, and taking a piece of swan’s-down, a lock of golden hair, and a pair of silver-tinsel tights from her portmanteau she handed them over to me.

My first impulse was to ask the lady if she remembered the name of the asylum from which she had escaped, but I fortunately refrained from doing so, and she shortly left me, promising to return at the end of the week.

For three days I puzzled over the clews. Swan’s-down, yellow hair, and a pair of silver-tinsel tights, while very interesting no doubt at times, do not form a very solid basis for a theory establishing the identity of so regal a person as my visitor. My first impression was that she was a vaudeville artist, and that the exhibits she had left me were a part of her make-up. This I was forced to abandon shortly, because no woman with the voice of my visitor would sing in vaudeville. The more ambitious stage was her legitimate field, if not grand opera itself.

At this point she returned to my office, and I of course reported progress. That is one of the most valuable things I learned while on earth—when you have done nothing, report progress.

“I haven’t quite succeeded as yet,” said I, “but I am getting at it slowly. I do not, however, think it wise to acquaint you with my present notions until they are verified beyond peradventure. It might help me somewhat if you were to tell me who it is you think you are. I could work either forward or backward on that hypothesis, as seemed best, and so arrive at a hypothetical truth anyhow.”

“That’s just what I don’t want to do,” said she. “That information might bias your final judgment. If, however, acting on the clews which you have, you confirm my impression that I am such and such a person, as well as the views which other people have, then will my status be well defined and I can institute my suit against my husband for a judicial separation, with back alimony, with some assurance of a successful issue.”

I was more puzzled than ever.

“Well,” said I, slowly, “I of course can see how a bit of swan’s-down and a lock of yellow hair backed up by a pair of silver-tinsel tights might constitute reasonable evidence in a suit for separation, but wouldn’t it—ah—be more to your purpose if I should use these data as establishing the identity of—er—somebody else?”

“How very dense you are,” she replied, impatiently. “That’s precisely what I want you to do.”

“But you told me it was your identity you wished proven,” I put in, irritably.

“Precisely,” said she.

“Then these bits of evidence are—yours?” I asked, hesitatingly. One does not like to accuse a lady of an undue liking for tinsel.

“They are all I have left of my husband,” she answered with a sob.

“Hum!” said I, my perplexity increasing. “Was the—ah—the gentleman blown up by dynamite?”

“Excuse me, Mr. Holmes,” she retorted, rising and running the scales. “I think, after all, I have come to the wrong shop. Have you Hawkshaw’s address handy? You are too obtuse for a detective.”

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The Enchanted Typewriter