TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES Obvious errors and omissions in punctuation have been fixed. The book was published in 1893. MY FRIEND THE MURDERER _AND OTHER MYSTERIES AND ADVENTURES_ BY A. CONAN DOYLE AUTHOR OF “THE WHITE COMPANY,” “THE FIRM OF GIRDLESTONE,” ETC., ETC. NEW YORK INTERNATIONAL BOOK COMPANY 310-318 SIXTH AVENUE BY UNITED STATES BOOK COMPANY. [_All rights reserved._] CONTENTS. PAGE MY FRIEND THE MURDERER, 7 THE GULLY OF BLUEMANSDYKE, 31 THE PARSON OF JACKMAN’S GULCH, 60 THE SILVER HATCHET, 79 THE MAN FROM ARCHANGEL, 99 THAT LITTLE SQUARE BOX, 129 A NIGHT AMONG THE NIHILISTS, 155 BONES, THE APRIL FOOL OF HARVEY’S SLUICE, 171 SELECTING A GHOST, 209 THE MYSTERY OF SASASSA VALLEY, 232 THE AMERICAN’S TALE, 248 OUR DERBY SWEEPSTAKES, 258 MY FRIEND THE MURDERER. “Number 43 is no better, Doctor,” said the head-warder, in a slightly reproachful accent, looking in round the corner of my door. “Confound 43!” I responded from behind the pages of the _Australian Sketcher_. “And 61 says his tubes are paining him. Couldn’t you do anything for him?” “He’s a walking drug-shop,” said I. “He has the whole British pharmacopœia inside him. I believe his tubes are as sound as yours are.” “Then there’s 7 and 108, they are chronic,” continued the warder, glancing down a blue slip of paper. “And 28 knocked off work yesterday--said lifting things gave him a stitch in the side. I want you to have a look at him, if you don’t mind, Doctor. There’s 31, too--him that killed John Adamson in the Corinthian brig--he’s been carrying on awful in the night, shrieking and yelling, he has, and no stopping him either.” “All right, I’ll have a look at him afterward,” I said, tossing my paper carelessly aside, and pouring myself out a cup of coffee. “Nothing else to report, I suppose, warder?” The official protruded his head a little further into the room. “Beg pardon, Doctor,” he said, in a confidential tone, “but I notice as 82 has a bit of a cold, and it would be a good excuse for you to visit him and have a chat, maybe.” The cup of coffee was arrested half-way to my lips as I stared in amazement at the man’s serious face. “An excuse?” I said. “An excuse? What the deuce are you talking about, McPherson? You see me trudging about all day at my practice, when I’m not looking after the prisoners, and coming back every night as tired as a dog, and you talk about finding an excuse for doing more work.” “You’d like it, Doctor,” said Warder McPherson, insinuating one of his shoulders into the room. “That man’s story’s worth listening to if you could get him to tell it, though he’s not what you’d call free in his speech. Maybe you don’t know who 82 is?” “No, I don’t, and I don’t care either,” I answered, in the conviction that some local ruffian was about to be foisted upon me as a celebrity.