"Don't be frightened, my little man. I knew it from the coagulated moisture collected on your cap, but little boys must learn to be polite. Lift your lid." He did so, scattering the Christmas largesse all over our priceless Bokhara rug.
"Now come over here and tell its your troubles," said Keys kindly.
In the genial warmth of the roaring fire, his damp clothes steaming like a hot toddy—a strange concoction of the ancient Romans—his little lips lisped a tale of a strangeness such as had surely never been told before, unless I may be allowed to except some stories of mine which have been published by the well-known firm of Brown & Younger.
"Please sir, I writted a letter to Mr. Sandy Claws Esq., to bring me a hairy-plain for Christmas all painted red all over, and the Post-Offis they sent the letter back and says as how they carn't find 'im. I knowed you could find anybody, so I come to you."
"Quite right, my little man," and Keys' keen eyes gleamed with professional pride. "You go straight home to bed and to sleep, and I will see that Mr. Santa Claus calls and you will find the red aeroplane when you wake up in the morning."
Quite satisfied the diminutive client departed, and Keys picked up the comb again—I found I had an important engagement and departed also.
It was close on one o'clock in the morning when I returned, and Keys was still sitting before the fire. With unusual geniality he got up and held out his hand. "Merry Christmas, Whenson." We shook hands. Feeling something sticky, I looked at my right hand, and saw some red paint on it, and then I noticed some white fluff adhering to the front of his coat.
Keys often assumed disguises, but—as Santa Claus!—well, I forgave him the comb.
*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SOME ADVENTURES OF MR. SURELOCK KEYS ***