Wilmore, the novelist, the other night,
and I heard Mr. Ledsam, very much to my chagrin, announce his
intention of abandoning a career in which he has, if he will
allow me to say so,"--with a courteous bow to Francis--"attained
considerable distinction, to indulge in the moth-eaten,
flamboyant and melodramatic antics of the lesser Sherlock Holmes.
I fear that I could not resist the opportunity of--I think you
young men call it--pulling his leg."
Every one was listening intently, including Shopland, who had
just drifted into the room and subsided into a chair near
Francis.
"I moved my place, therefore," Sir Timothy continued, "and I
whispered in Mr. Ledsam's ear some rodomontade to the effect that
if he were planning to be the giant crime-detector of the world,
I was by ambition the arch-criminal--or words to that effect. And
to give emphasis to my words, I wound up by prophesying a crime
in the immediate vicinity of the place within a few hours."
"A somewhat significant prophecy, under the circumstances,"
Francis remarked, reaching out for a dish of salted almonds and
drawing them towards him.
Sir Timothy shrugged his shoulders deprecatingly.
"I will confess," he admitted, "that I had not in my mind an
affair of such dimensions. My harmless remark, however, has
produced cataclysmic effects.
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