He barked at the waves exultingly and licked the secretary’s hand.

“What a beautiful dog,” said the passengers.

The disguise was absolutely complete.

The Great Detective had been coated over with mucilage to which dog hairs had been applied.  The markings on his back were perfect.  His tail, adjusted with an automatic coupler, moved up and down responsive to every thought.  His deep eyes were full of intelligence.

Next day he was exhibited in the Dachshund class at the
International show.

He won all hearts.

"Quel beau chien!" cried the French people.

"Ach! was ein Dog!" cried the Spanish.

The Great Detective took the first prize!

The fortune of the Countess was saved.

Unfortunately as the Great Detective had neglected to pay the dog tax, he was caught and destroyed by the dog-catchers.  But that is, of course, quite outside of the present narrative, and is only mentioned as an odd fact in conclusion.

II. —­ “Q.”  A Psychic Pstory of the Psupernatural

I cannot expect that any of my readers will believe the story which I am about to narrate.  Looking back upon it, I scarcely believe it myself.  Yet my narrative is so extraordinary and throws such light upon the nature of our communications with beings of another world, that I feel I am not entitled to withhold it from the public.

I had gone over to visit Annerly at his rooms.  It was Saturday, October 31.  I remember the date so precisely because it was my pay day, and I had received six sovereigns and ten shillings.  I remembered the sum so exactly because I had put the money into my pocket, and I remember into which pocket I had put it because I had no money in any other pocket.  My mind is perfectly clear on all these points.

Annerly and I sat smoking for some time.

Then quite suddenly—­

“Do you believe in the supernatural?” he asked.

I started as if I had been struck.

At the moment when Annerly spoke of the supernatural I had been thinking of something entirely different.  The fact that he should speak of it at the very instant when I was thinking of something else, struck me as at least a very singular coincidence.

For a moment I could only stare.

“What I mean is,” said Annerly, “do you believe in phantasms of the dead?”

“Phantasms?” I repeated.

“Yes, phantasms, or if you prefer the word, phanograms, or say if you will phanogrammatical manifestations, or more simply psychophantasmal phenomena?”

I looked at Annerly with a keener sense of interest than I had ever felt in him before.  I felt that he was about to deal with events and experiences of which in the two or three months that I had known him he had never seen fit to speak.

I wondered now that it had never occurred to me that a man whose hair at fifty-five was already streaked with grey, must have passed through some terrible ordeal.