I had an idea this would knock him out, as the Bostonians say, but counted without my host. He merely laughed.
“The American is only self-conscious. Therefore he is well-informed only as to self,” he said.
“You’ve proved your point, Sherlock,” I said. “Go on. What else have you proved?”
“That it is the little things that tell,” he replied. “Which all men would realize in a moment if they could see the little things—and when I say ‘if they could see,’ I of course mean if they could be conscious of them.”
“Very true,” said I.
“And I have the gift of consciousness,” he added.
I thought he had, and I said so. “But,” I added, “give me a concrete example.” It had been some weeks since I had listened to any of his detective stories, and I was athirst for another.
He rose up and walked over to his pigeon-holes, each labelled with a letter, in alphabetical sequence.
“I have only to refer to any of these to do so,” he said. “Choose your letter.”
“Really, Holmes,” said I, “I don’t need to do that. I’ll believe all you say. In fact, I’ll write it up and sign my name to any statement you choose to make.”