“I will wait for you here,” said the Minister, “and smoke a cigarette.”
When the inventor approached the quarry, leading the dog behind him, the Minister’s hand trembled so that he was hardly able to hold the field-glass to his eye. Lambelle disappeared down the path. The next instant the ground trembled even where the Minister sat, and a haze of dust arose above the ruined quarry.
Some moments after the pallid Minister looked over the work of destruction, but no trace of humanity was there except himself.
“I could not do otherwise,” he murmured, “It was too great a risk to run.”
THE GREAT PEGRAM MYSTERY.
(With apologies to Dr. Conan Doyle, and our mutual and lamented friend the late Sherlock Holmes.)
I dropped in on my friend, Sherlaw Kombs, to hear what he had to say about the Pegram mystery, as it had come to be called in the newspapers. I found him playing the violin with a look of sweet peace and serenity on his face, which I never noticed on the countenances of those within hearing distance. I knew this expression of seraphic calm indicated that Kombs had been deeply annoyed about something. Such, indeed, proved to be the case, for one of the morning papers had contained an article, eulogizing the alertness and general competence of Scotland Yard. So great was Sherlaw Kombs’s contempt for Scotland Yard that he never would visit Scotland during his vacations, nor would he ever admit that a Scotchman was fit for anything but export.
He generously put away his violin, for he had a sincere liking for me, and greeted me with his usual kindness.