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exclamation of scorn.
    "My dear Harley," I said, "the whole thing is too utterly fantastic. I
begin to believe again that we are dealing with a madman."
    Harley glanced down at the wing of the bat.
    "We shall see," he murmured. "Even if the only result of our visit is
to make the acquaintance of the Colonel's household our time will not
have been wasted."
    "No," said I, "that is true enough. I am looking forward to meeting
Madame de Stämer—"
    "The Colonel's invalid cousin," added Harley, tonelessly.
    "And her companion, Miss Beverley."
    "Quite so. Nor must we forget the Spanish butler, and the Colonel
himself, whose acquaintance I am extremely anxious to renew."
    "The whole thing is wildly bizarre, Harley."
    "My dear Knox," he replied, stretching himself luxuriously in the long
lounge chair, "the most commonplace life hovers on the edge of the
bizarre. But those of us who overstep the border become preposterous in
the eyes of those who have never done so. This is not because the
unusual is necessarily the untrue, but because writers of fiction have
claimed the unusual as their particular province, and in doing so have
divorced it from fact in the public eye. Thus I, myself, am a myth, and
so are you, Knox!"
    He raised his hand and pointed to the doorway communicating with the
office.
    "We owe our mythological existence to that American genius whose
portrait hangs beside the Burmese cabinet and who indiscreetly created
the character of C. Auguste Dupin. The doings of this amateur
investigator were chronicled by an admirer, you may remember, since
when no private detective has been allowed to exist outside the pages
of fiction. My most trivial habits confirm my unreality.
    "For instance, I have a friend who is good enough sometimes to record
my movements. So had Dupin. I smoke a pipe. So did Dupin. I investigate
crime, and I am sometimes successful. Here I differ from Dupin. Dupin
was always successful. But my argument is this—you complain that the
life of Colonel Don Juan Sarmiento Menendez, on his own showing, has
been at least as romantic as his name. It would not be accounted
romantic by the adventurous, Knox; it is only romantic to the prosaic
mind. In the same way his name is only unusual to our English ears. In
Spain it would pass unnoticed."
    "I see your point," I said, grudgingly; "but think of I Voodoo in the
Surrey Hills."
    "I am thinking of it, Knox, and it affords me much delight to think of
it. You have placed your finger I upon the very point I was
endeavouring to make. Voodoo in the Surrey Hills! Quite so. Voodoo in
some island of the Caribbean Seas, yes, but Voodoo in the Surrey Hills,
no. Yet, my dear fellow, there is a regular steamer service between
South America and England. Or one may embark at Liverpool and disembark
in the Spanish Main. Why, then, may not one embark in the West Indies
and disembark at Liverpool? This granted, you will also grant that from
Liverpool to Surrey is a feasible journey. Why, then, should you
exclaim, 'but Voodoo in the Surrey Hills!' You would be surprised to
meet an Esquimaux in the Strand, but there is no reason why an
Esquimaux should not visit the Strand. In short, the most annoying
thing about fact is its resemblance to fiction. I am looking forward to
the day, Knox, when I can retire from my present fictitious profession
and become a recognized member of the community; such as a press agent,
a theatrical manager, or some other dealer in Fact!"
    He burst out laughing, and reaching over to a side-table refilled my
glass and his own.
    "There lies the wing of a Vampire Bat," he said, pointing, "in Chancery
Lane. It is impossible. Yet," he raised his glass, "'Pussyfoot' Johnson
has visited Scotland, the home of Whisky!"
    We were silent for a while, whilst I considered his remarks.
    "The conclusion to which I have come," declared Harley, "is that
nothing is so strange as the commonplace. A rod and line, a boat, a
luncheon hamper, a jar of good ale, and the peculiar peace