latter had not been raised. Holmes crouched down behind the screen of laurels, and we all three followed his example.
“Well, what are we to do now?” asked MacDonald with some gruffness.
“Possess our souls in patience and make as little noise as possible,” Holmes answered.
“What are we here for at all? I really think that you might treat us with more frankness.”
Holmes laughed. “Watson insists that I am the dramatist in real life,” said he. “Some touch of the artist wells up within me, and calls insistently for a well staged performance. Surely our profession, Mr. Mac, would be a drab and sordid one if we did not sometimes set the scene so as to glorify our results. The blunt accusation, the brutal tap upon the shoulder,—what can one make of such a dénouement? But the quick inference, the subtle trap, the clever forecast of coming events, the triumphant vindication of bold theories,—are these not the pride and the justification of our life’s work? At the present moment you thrill with the glamour of the situation and the anticipation of the hunter. Where would be that thrill if I had been as
