much, and if I were to be in
a _melee_ tomorrow, there is no man I would rather find beside me than
Spenser Hale. In any situation where a fist that can fell an ox is
desirable, my friend Hale is a useful companion, but for
intellectuality, mental acumen, finesse--ah, well! I am the most
modest of men, and will say nothing.

It would amuse you to see this giant come into my room during an
evening, on the bluff pretence that he wishes to smoke a pipe with me.
There is the same difference between this good-natured giant and
myself as exists between that strong black pipe of his and my delicate
cigarette, which I smoke feverishly when he is present, to protect
myself from the fumes of his terrible tobacco. I look with delight
upon the huge man, who, with an air of the utmost good humour, and a
twinkle in his eye as he thinks he is twisting me about his finger,
vainly endeavours to obtain a hint regarding whatever case is
perplexing him at that moment. I baffle him with the ease that an
active greyhound eludes the pursuit of a heavy mastiff, then at last I
say to him with a laugh,--

'Come _mon ami_ Hale, tell me all about it, and I will help you if I
can.'

Once or twice at the beginning he shook his massive head, and replied
the secret was not his. The last time he did this I assured him that
what he said was quite correct, and then I related full particulars of
the situation in which he found himself, excepting the names, for
these he had not mentioned. I had pieced together his perplexity from
scraps of conversation in his half-hour's fishing for my advice,
which, of course, he could have had for the plain asking. Since that
time he has not come to me except with cases he feels at liberty to
reveal, and one or two complications I have happily been enabled to
unravel for him.

But, staunch as Spenser Hale holds the belief that no detective
service on earth can excel that centring in Scotland Yard, there is
one department of activity in which even he confesses that Frenchmen
are his masters, although he somewhat grudgingly qualifies his
admission by adding that we in France are constantly allowed to do
what is prohibited in England. I refer to the minute search of a house
during the owner's absence. If you read that excellent story, entitled
_The Purloined Letter_, by Edgar Allan Poe, you will find a record of
the kind of thing I mean, which is better than any description I, who
have so often taken part in such a se