The phenomenal success of our recent volumes has, I understand, led a certain section of our public to believe that you are the author of several of my books. In particular it has been stated that _The Rosary_ was written by your Lordship. As you know, I have a great respect for the aristocracy, and I do not suggest that you have deliberately put yourself forward as the author of my books. You will, however, understand me when I say that only your Lordship could express all that I feel about the matter. The mixing up of our identities is probably explained by the fact that we are both stylists and seekers for the _mot juste_. Will you please assist me in making it clear that we work independently? As I am staying in a country parsonage and it is our custom to read one another's letters over the breakfast-table, I shall be glad if any reply you may wish to make should be sent to the Editor of _The Times_. _Sir ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE to Sir OLIVER LODGE._ Our common concern with the life beyond has become so well known that our interests in this present life are in danger of becoming involved. In a volume of _Sherlock Holmes_ stories recently purchased abroad I find you described as the author, and another book assures me that I have written extensively on the Atomic Theory. You will, I am sure, see the harm which I am likely to suffer through such mistakes. Nor does the confusion end here. I find that my novel, _The Hound of the Baskervilles_, is now stated to be by Sir CONAN LODGE, and another book of mine, _The Lost World_, to be by Sir OLIVER DOYLE. Also I have seen myself described as "The Principal of Birmingham University," and yourself as the well-known detective of Baker Street. May I solicit your aid in helping me to suppress any further confusion of our respective genii? My best wishes to you and the good work. * * * * * LABOUR-SAVING. ["Electric bore, one man, portable."--_Trade Journal_.] Though not a scientific bean I am occasionally seen Scanning a technic magazine. I love to learn of any wheeze Wherewith to win by quick degrees A rich sufficiency of ease. And so it thrilled me to the core To read the phrase, "Electric bore," And think of happy days in store. In former times I'd often start Abroad with eagerness of heart To patronise dramatic art; Only at curtain's fall to come Homeward again, dejected, glum, And overwhelmed by tedium. With _ennui_ verging on distress I'd witnessed from the circle (dress) Some transatlantic HUGE SUCCESS; Or else some play of Irish life, Ending with father, son and wife Impaled upon a single knife; Or haply I had chanced to choose Some even surer source of blues, One of the things they call revues. But now those times are passed away; Electric bores have come to stay; I mean to purchase one to-day. I don't know how it works, but an Authority declares it can Be guided by a single man.