Some curiosity has been expressed as to Mr. Martin Hewitt’s system, and, as he himself always consistently maintains that he has no system beyond a judicious use of ordinary faculties, I intend setting forth in detail a few of the more interesting of his cases in order that the public may judge for itself if I am right in estimating Mr. Hewitt’s “ordinary faculties” as faculties very extraordinary indeed.  He is not a man who has made many friendships (this, probably, for professional reasons), notwithstanding his genial and companionable manners.  I myself first made his acquaintance as a result of an accident resulting in a fire at the old house in which Hewitt’s office was situated, and in an upper floor of which I occupied bachelor chambers.  I was able to help in saving a quantity of extremely important papers relating to his business, and, while repairs were being made, allowed him to lock them in an old wall-safe in one of my rooms which the fire had scarcely damaged.

The acquaintance thus begun has lasted many years, and has become a rather close friendship.  I have even accompanied Hewitt on some of his expeditions, and, in a humble way, helped him.  Such of the cases, however, as I personally saw nothing of I have put into narrative form from the particulars given me.

“I consider you, Brett,” he said, addressing me, “the most remarkable journalist alive.  Not because you’re particularly clever, you know, because, between ourselves, I hope you’ll admit you’re not; but because you have known something of me and my doings for some years, and have never yet been guilty of giving away any of my little business secrets you may have become acquainted with.  I’m afraid you’re not so enterprising a journalist as some, Brett.  But now, since you ask, you shall write something—­if you think it worth while.”

This he said, as he said most things, with a cheery, chaffing good-nature that would have been, perhaps, surprising to a stranger who thought of him only as a grim and mysterious discoverer of secrets and crimes.  Indeed, the man had always as little of the aspect of the conventional detective as may be imagined.  Nobody could appear more cordial or less observant in manner, although there was to be seen a certain sharpness of the eye—­which might, after all, only be the twinkle of good humor.

I did think it worth while to write something of Martin Hewitt’s investigations, and a description of one of his adventures follows.

* * * * *

At the head of the first flight of a dingy staircase leading up from an ever-open portal in a street by the Strand stood a door, the dusty ground-glass upper panel of which carried in its center the single word “Hewitt,” while at its right-hand lower corner, in smaller letters, “Clerk’s Office” appeared.  On a morning when the clerks in the ground-floor offices had barely hung up their hats, a short, well-dressed young man, wearing spectacles, hastening to open the dusty door, ran into the arms of another man who suddenly issued from it.