Dear me, Mr. Holmes. Dear me! said this singular epistle. There was neither superscription nor signature. I laughed at the quaint message; but Holmes showed unwonted seriousness.

By Gar! you've got an Irish tongue in your head anyhow, cried the saloon-keeper, not quite certain whether to humour this audacious visitor or to stand upon his dignity.

Her stick made a little clickety noise on the flagstones.

Among the younger men who were winning fame—with the surge and thunder that heralded the youth of the nineties—was Rudyard Kipling; the seething brain of H. G. Wells was boiling over into scientific romance; and old romance was brought to life by the charm of Anthony Hope.