I don't care what you say," I exclaimed enthusiastically; my opinion is that Sherlock Holmes will be as great a favourite with posterity as Pickwick will be, or Tom Jones, or Count Fosco, or anybody else you can name in fiction." "Bosh! Rot!" replied my friend. "Don't libel posterity in that reckless manner; it never did you any harm, and the poor body cannot speak for itself. And why should you imagine it will be so easily imposed upon?" "But look at his unique individuality — his wonderful reasoning powers," I retorted. "Unique and wonderful fiddle de-dee! Did you ever read Poe's tales of mystery and imagination?" he asked. "Can't say I have," I replied. "Then invest eighteen pence in the volume, and read first of all The Murder in the Rue Morgue and The Mystery of Marie Roget. In M. Dupin, therein described you will find a marvellous analyst — a genius head and shoulders above your Sherlock Holmes, of whom he was doubtless — directly or indirectly — the prototype." My friend Anderson was a particularly smart private defective, specially retained by a Burglary Insurance Company, and I gave him credit for speaking with a touch of professional jealousy; still, he had brought off some clever captures, and had exposed a few people who had attempted to defraud his Company, so I was compelled to regard him as an authority. But for all that, I thought he might not know everything, and that was a mistake I had often made in the past; either people had shown more confidence in him, and were never disappointed. If the school cricket team had a "demon" batsman opposed to them it was always Anderson who opposed him; and how coolly he went to work to find the pitch that bothered him, and how cautiously he varied the pace and bothered him worse than ever, and how cunningly he signalled for point and slip to come in a little, then a little more break on, and - exit the demon! It was good to see Anderson on the job. And the football eleven found him equally valuable, for what he lacked in speed and accurate kicking at half back were more than atoned for by his judgment; he knew when to kick, when to head, when to wait, and when to project his eleven stone of bone and muscle upon his antagonists. As a chess player he was fine; at billiards he was finer; as a hand at whist — well, the late Mrs. Battle would have adored him. "Well," I growled, "you haven't a man at Scotland Yard or elsewhere, with so remarkable a record as Holmes has." "How do you, know what we have at Scotland Yard, — and elsewhere?" he snapped. "We should have heard of them and their performance." I replied. "Trust you fellows to hide your lights under bushels, especially if you pulled off such astonishing things." "What astonishing things do you refer to?" he inquired. "Why," said I, "his taking up a watch, for example, and after studying it for a few seconds telling the character of its late owner, down to his most trivial habits." "My dear boy, I can do such common-place things as easy as reading my newspaper; and so can any other man worthy the name of detective," Anderson replied, "You shall try me with anything you like, however difficult it may seem to you; such deductions are merely the A.B.C. stays of detective work. Test me to the utmost of your ingenuity, and I'll tell to afterwards of an unchronicled failure in the career of Sherlock Holmes — an episode in which I took a part, and scored pretty well." His conceit amused, yet irritated me; but after a few puffs at my pipe an idea struck me, and going into another room I brought out a dirty collar and threw it to him. "There! Diagnose that," I said. "Has it been worn recently?" he asked, as he took his microscope from his vest pocket. "Only taken off last night," I answered. "H'm! Well, the late wearer takes snuff to begin with, and plenty of it; he has the remains of a boil within two inches of his left ear; he has a wife who is both negligent in her household duties and is ignorant of laundry work, and he is a clerk. Is that enough, or shall I tell you if he has been vaccinated or no, and what his politics are?" "Quite sufficient," I said, rather staggered, "and pretty correct. The owner is the husband of my cook's sister. Your microscope would show you the snuff mark and the ink stain, but how do you get at the remainder? Why not say that he is single? And how about the boil?" He smiled. "You are right about what the microscope revealed to me. Good old microscope! It is the detective's