“It was in this way that I treated the strange case of the lost tiara,” resumed the stranger. “Mental concentration upon seemingly insignificant details alone enabled me to bring about the desired results in that instance. A brief outline of the case is as follows: It was late one evening in the early spring of 1894. The London season was at its height. Dances, fêtes of all kinds, opera, and the theatres were in full blast, when all of a sudden society was paralyzed by a most audacious robbery. A diamond tiara valued at £50,000 sterling had been stolen from the Duchess of Brokedale, and under circumstances which threw society itself and every individual in it under suspicion—even his Royal Highness the Prince himself, for he had danced frequently with the Duchess, and was known to be a great admirer of her tiara. It was at half-past eleven o’clock at night that the news of the robbery first came to my ears. I had been spending the evening alone in my library making notes for a second volume of my memoirs, and, feeling somewhat depressed, I was on the point of going out for my usual midnight walk on Hampstead Heath, when one of my servants, hastily entering, informed me of the robbery. I changed my mind in respect to my midnight walk immediately upon receipt of the news, for I knew that before one o’clock some one would call upon me at my lodgings with reference to this robbery. It could not be otherwise. Any mystery of such magnitude could no more be taken to another bureau than elephants could fly—” “They used to,” said Adam. “I once had a whole aviary full of winged elephants. They flew from flower to flower, and thrusting their probabilities deep into—” “Their what?” queried Johnson, with a frown. “Probabilities—isn’t that the word? Their trunks,” said Adam. “Probosces, I imagine you mean,” suggested Johnson. “Yes—that was it. Their probosces,” said Adam. “They were great honey-gatherers, those elephants—far better than the bees, because they could make so much more of it in a given time.” Munchausen shook his head sadly. “I’m afraid I’m outclassed by these antediluvians,” he said. “Gentlemen! gentlemen!” cried Sir Walter. “These interruptions are inexcusable!” “That’s what I think,” said the stranger, with some asperity. “I’m having about as hard a time getting this story out as I would if it were a serial. Of course, if you gentlemen do not wish to hear it, I can stop; but it must be understood that when I do stop I stop finally, once and for all, because the tale has not a sufficiency of dramatic climaxes to warrant its prolongation over the usual magazine period of twelve months.” “Go on! go on!” cried some. “Shut up!” cried others—addressing the interrupting members, of course.