"Quite so," was all I could think of to say at the moment. The extraordinary logic of the man staggered me, and I again began to believe that the famous mathematician who said that if Sherlock Holmes attempted to prove that five apples plus three peaches made four pears, he would not venture to dispute his conclusions, was wise. (This was the famous Professor Zoggenhoffer, of the Leipsic School of Moral Philosophy and Stenography.--ED.) "Now you agree, my dear Watson," he said, "that I have proved that we see everything?" "Well--" I began. "Whether we are conscious of it or not?" he added, lighting the gas-log, for the cold was becoming intense. "From that point of view, I suppose so--yes," I replied, desperately. "Well, then, this being granted, consciousness is all that is needed to make us fully informed on any point." "No," I said, with some positiveness. "The American people are very conscious, but I can't say that generally they are well-informed." I had an idea this would knock him out, as the Bostonians say, but counted without my host. He merely laughed. "The American is only self-conscious. Therefore he is well-informed only as to self," he said. "You've proved your point, Sherlock," I said. "Go on. What else have you proved?" "That it is the little things that tell," he replied. "Which all men would realize in a moment if they could see the little things--and when I say 'if they could see,' I of course mean if they could be conscious of them." "Very true," said I. "And I have the gift of consciousness," he added. I thought he had, and I said so. "But," I added, "give me a concrete example." It had been some weeks since I had listened to any of his detective stories, and I was athirst for another. He rose up and walked over to his pigeon-holes, each labelled with a letter, in alphabetical sequence. "I have only to refer to any of these to do so," he said. "Choose your letter." "Really, Holmes," said I, "I don't need to do that. I'll believe all you say. In fact, I'll write it up and _sign my name_ to any statement you choose to make." [Illustration: THE LAMP-POSTS WERE TWISTED] "Choose your letter, Watson," he retorted. "You and I are on terms that make flattery impossible. Is it F, J, P, Q, or Z?" He fixed his eye penetratingly upon me. It seemed for the moment as if I were hypnotized, and as his gaze fairly stabbed me with its intensity, through my mind there ran the suggestion "Choose J, choose J, choose J." To choose J became an obsession. To relieve my mind, I turned my eye from his and looked at the fire. Each flame took on the form of the letter J. I left my chair and walked to the window and looked out. The lamp-posts were twisted into the shape of the letter J. I returned, sat down, gulped down my brandy-and-soda, and looked up at the portraits of Holmes's ancestors on the wall. They were all J's. But I was resolved never to yield, and I gasped out, desperately, "Z!"