“Do you mean to say that Watson hasn’t told the world about my last and greatest case? Why, that was the very reason I returned to earth! Ambassador Porter came over to England and besought Sir Arthur Conan Doyle to find the dead sea dog. Only one man could do it—myself. Lucifer refused to give me up, but Dr. Doyle matched his cunning with that of His Satanic Majesty, gave him a dose of cocaine, and won. Watson says each case is more difficult than the last, but I do pride myself that this exploit would have baffled every one save the great Sherlock Holmes. By a series of deductions I came to the conclusion that the bones of John Paul Jones would be found wrapped in tinfoil, encased in a leaden coffin, swimming in alcohol under a stable. With this information it was easy for Porter to do the rest. As Watson says: ‘It was all so absurdly simple!’” “Tell me your story.” At sight of my note book the detective shook his head. “I commissioned Watson to do that, but Conan Doyle, who owns the copyright, may wish to give the Ambassador the credit until he comes to join us on the banks of the Styx. I never did seek notoriety, but Dr. Doyle, while waiting for patients who never came, reversed the usual practice of physicians; he brought a dead man to life, and of course I was so grateful that I took cocaine to drug my modesty and—the literary market.” “The latest news we had of you on earth was that you had retired to study bee-farming on Sussex Downs.” “Bee-farming? That is the most unkind sting of all! Then Sussex must reach down to Hades, for here I am, Oslerized and ostracized. James Payne calls books the chloroform of the mind and so I have been embalmed between covers, and ‘finis’ written for my epitaph. Never mind, it is a matter of indifference to me now that I have had my revenge on that pirate.” “Pirate!” I gasped. Holmes laughed at my horrified tone. “You forget that I’m English,” he said. “When I pointed out to Porter that the way to fame lay in a dead man’s shoes I paid off a score of more than a century’s standing. Maybe you are not aware that when a body is disturbed after being once buried, its soul must inhabit the Outer Darkness a thousand years longer than the original decree. Let us see how the admiral bears up under the shock. In Wishland that is an easy matter. Paul Jones, I desire your presence.” A moment’s pause, then out of the twilight flitted the spectre of a man in naval dress. A husky voice came to us as from the throat of a phonograph: “A thousand years more! No quarter! No quarter! ‘I had only just begun to fight!’” The detective laughed mirthlessly. “What a merry place is Hades! Imagine a thing and you have it. Think, and at once the thought takes visible form. Truly, this is a land of magic that needs no Aladdin’s lamp. Behold the jugglery of fulfilled desire—that is John Paul Jones!” JOHN BROWN’S BODY AND THE BONES OF JOHN PAUL JONES.