“Nothing easier,” said Jolnes, genially.  “As you came in I caught the odour of the cigar you are smoking.  I know an expensive cigar; and I know that not more than three men in New York can afford to smoke cigars and pay gas bills too at the present time.  That was an easy one.  But I am working just now on a little problem of my own.”

“Why have you that string on your finger?” I asked.

“That’s the problem,” said Jolnes.  “My wife tied that on this morning to remind me of something I was to send up to the house.  Sit down, Whatsup, and excuse me for a few moments.”

The distinguished detective went to a wall telephone, and stood with the receiver to his ear for probably ten minutes.

“Were you listening to a confession?” I asked, when he had returned to his chair.

“Perhaps,” said Jolnes, with a smile, “it might be called something of the sort.  To be frank with you, Whatsup, I’ve cut out the dope.  I’ve been increasing the quantity for so long that morphine doesn’t have much effect on me any more.  I’ve got to have something more powerful.  That telephone I just went to is connected with a room in the Waldorf where there’s an author’s reading in progress.  Now, to get at the solution of this string.”

After five minutes of silent pondering, Jolnes looked at me, with a smile, and nodded his head.

“Wonderful man!” I exclaimed; “already?”

“It is quite simple,” he said, holding up his finger.  “You see that knot?  That is to prevent my forgetting.  It is, therefore, a forget-me-knot.  A forget-me-not is a flower.  It was a sack of flour that I was to send home!”

“Beautiful!” I could not help crying out in admiration.

“Suppose we go out for a ramble,” suggested Jolnes.

“There is only one case of importance on hand just now.  Old man McCarty, one hundred and four years old, died from eating too many bananas.  The evidence points so strongly to the Mafia that the police have surrounded the Second Avenue Katzenjammer Gambrinus Club No. 2, and the capture of the assassin is only the matter of a few hours.  The detective force has not yet been called on for assistance.”

Jolnes and I went out and up the street toward the corner, where we were to catch a surface car.

Half-way up the block we met Rheingelder, an acquaintance of ours, who held a City Hall position.

“Good morning, Rheingelder,” said Jolnes, halting.

“Nice breakfast that was you had this morning.”

Always on the lookout for the detective’s remarkable feats of deduction, I saw Jolnes’s eye flash for an instant upon a long yellow splash on the shirt bosom and a smaller one upon the chin of Rheingelder—­both undoubtedly made by the yolk of an egg.

“Oh, dot is some of your detectiveness,” said Rheingelder, shaking all over with a smile.  “Vell, I pet you trinks und cigars all round dot you cannot tell vot I haf eaten for breakfast.”