"Now listen," said Holes, and then read, in a voice devoid of any sign of emotion, the following paragraph:—"This morning, as Mrs. Drabley, a lady of independent means, was walking in Piccadilly, she inadvertently stepped on a piece of orange-peel, and fell heavily on the pavement. She was carried into the shop of Messrs. Salver and Tankard, the well-known silversmiths, and it was at first thought she had broken her right leg. However, on being examined by a medical man who happened to be passing, she was pronounced to be suffering from nothing worse than a severe bruise, and, in the course of half-an-hour, she recovered sufficiently to be able to proceed on her business. This is the fifth accident caused by orange-peel at the same place within the last week."
"The Bishop was in his night-gown, and the sight of two strangers visibly alarmed him."
"It is scandalous!" I broke in. "This mania for dropping orange-peel is decimating London. Curiously enough I happen to be the medical man who——"
"Yes, I know; you are the medical man who was passing."
"Holes," I ejaculated, "you are a magician."
"No, not a magician; only a humble seeker after truth, who uses as a basis for his deduction some slight point that others are too blind to grasp. Now you think the matter ends there. I don't. I mean to discover who dropped that orange-peel. Will you help me?"
"Of course I will, but how do you mean to proceed? There must be thousands of people who eat oranges every day in London."
"Be accurate, my dear fellow, whatever you do. There are 78,965, not counting girls. But this piece was not dropped by a girl."
"How do you know?" I asked.