"We owe our mythological existence to that American genius whose
portrait hangs beside the Burmese cabinet and who indiscreetly created
the character of C. Auguste Dupin. The doings of this amateur
investigator were chronicled by an admirer, you may remember, since
when no private detective has been allowed to exist outside the pages
of fiction. My most trivial habits confirm my unreality.
"For instance, I have a friend who is good enough sometimes to record
my movements. So had Dupin. I smoke a pipe. So did Dupin. I investigate
crime, and I am sometimes successful. Here I differ from Dupin. Dupin
was always successful. But my argument is this--you complain that the
life of Colonel Don Juan Sarmiento Menendez, on his own showing, has
been at least as romantic as his name. It would not be accounted
romantic by the adventurous, Knox; it is only romantic to the prosaic
mind. In the same way his name is only unusual to our English ears. In
Spain it would pass unnoticed."
"I see your point," I said, grudgingly; "but think of I Voodoo in the
Surrey Hills."
"I am thinking of it, Knox, and it affords me much delight to think of
it.
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