"No; murder will not out----at least not when the criminal is what I might call a professional, a man of genius in his vocation, educated, intelligent, dispassionate, scientific. Fortunately for the reputation of the detective, amateur and professional, the genius in the criminal line is necessarily of a modest and retiring disposition. _He_ cannot call the public attention to his ingenuity and skill; _he_ cannot puff his achievements in the daily press. Not only are his masterpieces unsigned, but they remain forever unheard of. The detective is known only by his successes; the criminal's reputation is based solely upon his failures." Doctor Murdock delivered this parting shot with the cool deliberateness which was characteristic of the man. The insolent irony of his words was emphasized by the calmness of his bearing. "I say, Doctor," laughed Sprague, "you have missed your vocation. You should have adopted the profession of scientific criminal yourself. You seem to possess the theory of the science as it is, and a little experience would no doubt have made you an adept in the practice as well." A look of mild amusement passed over Murdock's countenance. "Perhaps you are right, Mr. Sprague. At any rate, I think I may affirm, without overweening conceit, that if I had followed the course you suggest, I could have prepared for your friend Mr. Sturgis some pretty little problems on which to sharpen his wits. I feel that I could have been an artist as well as a scientist in that line." "You might console yourself by writing an interesting and valuable book, under some such title as 'Hints to the Young Criminal,' or 'Crime as a Fine Art.' At all events, your criminals of genius have a stanch advocate in you. But what on earth have the detectives done to you to call forth this wholesale vituperation?" "Nothing. But, as a disinterested observer, I like to see fair play. If I am mistaken in my estimate of the modern detective, I am open to conviction. I have five thousand dollars to wager against one hundred that I can pick up any daily paper and from its columns select an unsolved riddle, to which no detective on the face of the earth can give the answer. Have I any taker, gentlemen?" As he spoke, his eyes met Sturgis's and suddenly seemed to flash with an earnest defiance, which instantly melted into the calm, cynical smile of the man of the world. "Done," said Sturgis, quietly. "Very well, Mr. Sturgis," observed Doctor Murdock indifferently. "I shall confine myself to the columns of your own newspaper for the selection of the problem upon which you are to work. "And," he added, with a supercilious smile, "you are at liberty to fix the limit of time in which the wager must be decided."