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"Pshaw, my dear fellow, what do the public, the great unobservant

public, who could hardly tell a weaver by his tooth or a

compositor by his left thumb, care about the finer shades of

analysis and deduction! But, indeed, if you are trivial, I cannot

blame you, for the days of the great cases are past. Man, or at

least criminal man, has lost all enterprise and originality. As

to my own little practice, it seems to be degenerating into an

agency for recovering lost lead pencils and giving advice to

young ladies from boarding-schools. I think that I have touched

bottom at last, however. This note I had this morning marks my

zero-point, I fancy. Read it!" He tossed a crumpled letter across

to me.

It was dated from Montague Place upon the preceding evening, and

ran thus: