The contribution of Mr. Davis was a most excellent sketch of the
inimitable Van Bibber, and told how on his way to a dance late one
evening during Christmas week he encountered, snuggled in a doorway near
the North River, a poor little street gamin nearly frozen to death. Van
Bibber saves the child's life by removing his dress-coat and wrapping it
up in it, the result being that he has to lead the cotillon at Mrs.
Winchley's clad in a fur-lined overcoat. It was a tender and touching
little literary gem, and was full of the fine sentiment and lofty
moralizing for which this author has always been noted. Its humor may
well be imagined. The little talk between Van Bibber and Travers in the
dressing-room as to Van Bibber's dilemma when he realized how his
impetuosity had led him into giving the boy his coat was a
characteristic bit, and ran somewhat like this:
"'What the deuce shall I do?" he said, fanning his somewhat
flushed face with the silver-backed hand-mirror. 'I can't
lead the cotillon in my shirt-sleeves.'
"'No, you can't,' assented Travers with a droll smile. 'What
an ass you were not to give him your fur-lined overcoat
instead.'
"'It wouldn't have fitted him,' said Van Bibber, absently.
'Poor little devil.'
"'There's only one thing you can do, Van,' said Travers
after a moment's pause. 'Either don't stay, or dance in your
overcoat.'
"'That's two things,' retorted Van Bibber. 'Of course I've
got to stay. I told Mrs. Winchley I'd lead her cotillon, and
I've got to do it. Do you suppose people would say anything
if I did appear in my overcoat?'
"'Not if they had any manners they wouldn't,' said Travers.
'Of course, it will be observed, but if they know anything
about good form they'll keep quiet about it.'
"'Then it's settled,' Van Bibber said quietly. 'I'll wear
the fur overcoat, and to disarm all criticism I'll simply
tell everybody I have a fearful cold and don't dare take it
off. Come on--let's go down. It's half past one now, and
Mrs. Winchley told me she wanted to begin early, so as to
have it over with before breakfast.'"
V
It was my pleasure next to have a Sherlock Holmes story from Dr. Doyle,
wherein the great detective is once more restored to life, and through
an ingenious complication discovers himself. His sudden disappearance,
which was never fully explained, did not really result in his death, but
in a concussion of the brain in his fall over the precipice which drove
all consciousness of his real self from his mind. Found in an
unconscious condition by a band of yodelers, he is carried by them into
the Tyrolese Alps, where, after a prolonged illness, he regains his
health, but all his past life is a blank to him. How he sets about
ferreting out the mystery of his identity is the burden of the story,
and how he ultimately discovers that he is none other than Sherlock
Holmes by finding a diamond brooch in the gizzard of a Christmas turkey
at Nice, where he is stopping under the name of Higgins, is vividly set
forth:
"'And you have never really ascertained, Mr. Higgins, who
you are?' asked Lady Blenkinsop, as they sat down at Mrs.
Wilbraham's gorgeous table on Christmas night.
"'No, madame,' he replied, sadly, 'but I shall ultimately
triumph. My taste in cigars is a peculiar one, and no one
else that I have ever met can smoke with real enjoyment the
kind of a cigar that I like. I am searching, step by step,
in every city for a cigar dealer who makes a specialty of
that brand who has recently lost a customer. Ultimately I
shall find one, and then the chain of evidence will be near
to its ultimate link, for it may be that I shall turn out to
be that man.'"
Thus the story runs on, and the pseudo-Higgins delights his
fellow-guests with the brilliance of his conversation. He eats lightly,
when suddenly a flash of triumph comes into his deep-set eyes, for on
cutting open the turkey gizzard the diamond brooch is disclosed. He
seems about to faint, but with a strong effort of the will he regains
his strength and arises.
"Mrs. Wilbraham,' he said, quietly and simply--'ladies and
gentlemen, I must leave you. I take the 9.10 train for
London. May I be excused?'
"The eyes of the company opened wide.
"'Why--must you really go, Mr Higgins?' Mrs. Wilbraham
queried
"'It is imperative,' said he. 'I am going to have myself
identified. The finding of this diamond brooch in a turkey
gizzard convinces me that I am Sherlock Holmes. Such a thing
could happen to no other, yet I may be mistaken. I shall
call at once upon a certain Dr. Watson, of London, a friend
of Holmes's, who will answer the question definitely.'
"And with a courteous bow to the company he left the room,
his usually pale features aglow with unwonted color."
Of course, the surmise proves to be correct, and the great detective
once more rejoins his former companions, restored not only to them, but
to himself. It was one of the most keenly interesting studies of
detective life that Dr. Doyle or any one else has ever given us, and my
regret that the story is lost to the world amounts almost to a positive
grief.