“Excuse me, Mr. Holmes,” she retorted, rising and running the scales. “I think, after all, I have come to the wrong shop. Have you Hawkshaw's address handy? You are too obtuse for a detective.” My reputation was at stake, so I said, significantly: “Good! Good! I was merely trying one of my disguises on you, madame, and you were completely taken in. Of course no one would ever know me for Sherlock Holmes if I manifested such dullness.” “Ah!” she said, her face lighting up. “You were merely deceiving me by appearing to be obtuse?” “Of course,” said I. “I see the whole thing in a nutshell. You married an adventurer; he told you who he was, but you've never been able to prove it; and suddenly you are deserted by him, and on going over his wardrobe you find he has left nothing but these articles: and now you wish to sue him for a separation on the ground of desertion, and secure alimony if possible.” It was a magnificent guess. “That is it precisely,” said the lady. “Except as to the extent of his 'leavings.' In addition to the things you have he gave my small brother a brass bugle and a tin sword.” “We may need to see them later,” said I. “At present I will do all I can for you on the evidence in hand. I have got my eye on a gentleman who wears silver-tinsel tights now, but I am afraid he is not the man we are after, because his hair is black, and, as far as I have been able to learn from his valet, he is utterly unacquainted with swan's-down.” We separated again and I went to the club to think. Never in my life before had I had so baffling a case. As I sat in the cafe sipping a cocaine cobbler, who should walk in but Hamlet, strangely enough picking particles of swan's-down from his black doublet, which was literally covered with it. “Hello, Sherlock!” he said, drawing up a chair and sitting down beside me. “What you up to?” “Trying to make out where you have been,” I replied. “I judge from the swan's-down on your doublet that you have been escorting Ophelia to the opera in the regulation cloak.” “You're mistaken for once,” he laughed. “I've been driving with Lohengrin. He's got a pair of swans that can do a mile in 2.10--but it makes them moult like the devil.” “Pair of what?” I cried. “Swans,” said Hamlet. “He's an eccentric sort of a duffer, that Lohengrin. Afraid of horses, I fancy.” “And so drives swans instead?” said I, incredulously. “The same,” replied Hamlet. “Do I look as if he drove squab?” “He must be queer,” said I. “I'd like to meet him. He'd make quite an addition to my collection of freaks.” “Very well,” observed Hamlet. “He'll be here to-morrow to take luncheon with me, and if you'll come, too, you'll be most welcome. He's collecting freaks, too, and I haven't a doubt would be pleased to know you.”