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: