[Illustration: "Beside me stood Picklock Holes, wrapped in a heavy, close-fitting fur _moujik_."] "You seem surprised to see me," he said. "Well, perhaps that is natural; but really, my dear fellow, you might employ your time to better purpose than in trying to guess the number of words in the first leading article in the _Times_ of the day before yesterday." I was about to protest when he stopped me. "I know perfectly well what you are going to say, but it is useless to urge that the country is dull, and that a man must employ his brain somehow. That kind of employment is the merest wool-gathering." He plucked a small piece of Berlin worsted--I had been darning my socks--off my left trouser, and examined it curiously. My admiration for the man knew no bounds. "Is that how you know?" I asked. "Do you mean to tell me that merely by seeing that small piece of fancy wool on my trousers you guessed I had been trying to calculate the number of words in the _Times_ leader? HOLES, HOLES, will you never cease from astounding me?" He did not answer me, but bared his muscular arm and injected into it a strong dose of morphia with a richly-chased little gold instrument tipped with a ruby. "A gift from the CZAR," said HOLES, in answer to my unspoken thoughts. "When I discovered the missing silver-mine on board the yacht of the Grand Duke IVANOFF, his Imperial Majesty first offered me the Chancellorship of his dominions, but I begged him to excuse me, and asked for this pretty toy. Bah, the Russian police are bunglers." As he made this remark the door opened and Sergeant BLUFF of the Dumpshire Constabulary entered hurriedly. "I beg your pardon, Sir," he said, addressing me, with evident perturbation; "but would you step outside with me for a moment. There's been some strange work down at----" HOLES interrupted him. "Don't say any more," he broke in. "You've come to tell us about the dreadful poaching affray in Hagley Wood. I know all about it, and tired as I am I'll help you to find the criminals." It was amusing to watch the Sergeant's face. He was ordinarily an unemotional man, but as HOLES spoke to him he grew purple with astonishment. "Beggin' your pardon, Sir," he said; "I didn't know about no----" "My name is HOLES," said my friend calmly. "What, Mr. PICKLOCK HOLES, the famous detective?" "The same, at your service; but we are wasting time. Let us be off." The night was cold, and a few drops of rain were falling. As we walked along the lane HOLES drew from the Sergeant all the information he wanted as to the number of pheasants on the Duke's estate, the extent of his cellars, his rent-roll, and the name of his London tailor. BLUFF dropped behind after this cross-examination with a puzzled expression, and whispered to me: "A wonderful man that Mister HOLES. Now how did he know about this 'ere poaching business? _I_ knew nothing about it. Why I come to you, Sir, to talk about that retriever dog you lost."