"'What the deuce shall I do?" he said, fanning his somewhat flushed face with the silver-backed hand-mirror. 'I can't lead the cotillon in my shirt-sleeves.'
"'No, you can't,' assented Travers with a droll smile. 'What an ass you were not to give him your fur-lined overcoat instead.'
"'It wouldn't have fitted him,' said Van Bibber, absently. 'Poor little devil.'
"'There's only one thing you can do, Van,' said Travers after a moment's pause. 'Either don't stay, or dance in your overcoat.'
"'That's two things,' retorted Van Bibber. 'Of course I've got to stay. I told Mrs. Winchley I'd lead her cotillon, and I've got to do it. Do you suppose people would say anything if I did appear in my overcoat?'
"'Not if they had any manners they wouldn't,' said Travers. 'Of course, it will be observed, but if they know anything about good form they'll keep quiet about it.'
"'Then it's settled,' Van Bibber said quietly. 'I'll wear the fur overcoat, and to disarm all criticism I'll simply tell everybody I have a fearful cold and don't dare take it off. Come on—let's go down. It's half past one now, and Mrs. Winchley told me she wanted to begin early, so as to have it over with before breakfast.'"
V
It was my pleasure next to have a Sherlock Holmes story from Dr. Doyle, wherein the great detective is once more restored to life, and through an ingenious complication discovers himself. His sudden disappearance, which was never fully explained, did not really result in his death, but in a concussion of the brain in his fall over the precipice which drove all consciousness of his real self from his mind. Found in an unconscious condition by a band of yodelers, he is carried by them into the Tyrolese Alps, where, after a prolonged illness, he regains his health, but all his past life is a blank to him. How he sets about ferreting out the mystery of his identity is the burden of the story, and how he ultimately discovers that he is none other than Sherlock Holmes by finding a diamond brooch in the gizzard of a Christmas turkey at Nice, where he is stopping under the name of Higgins, is vividly set forth:
"'And you have never really ascertained, Mr. Higgins, who you are?' asked Lady Blenkinsop, as they sat down at Mrs. Wilbraham's gorgeous table on Christmas night.