ld chap," he said with a hearty laugh as I
rose. "If this royalty statement can prove to me that you are the literary
partner I need in my business, I can prove to you that I'm a good man to
tie up to--so go along with you."

With this he lighted a fresh cigar and turned to a perusal of my statement,
which, I am glad to say, was a good one, owing to the great success of my
book, _Wild Animals I Have Never Met_--the seventh-best seller at
Rochester, Watertown, and Miami in June and July, 1905--while I went out
into the dining-room and mixed the coolers. As you may imagine, I was not
long at it, for my curiosity over my visitor lent wings to my corkscrew,
and in five minutes I was back with the tempting beverages in the tall
glasses, the lemon curl giving it the vertebrate appearance that all stiff
drinks should have, and the ice tinkling refreshingly upon the sultry air.

"There," said I, placing his glass before him. "Drink hearty, and then to
business. Who are you?"

"There is my card," he replied, swallowing a goodly half of the cooler and
smacking his lips appreciatively, and tossing a visiting card across to me
on the other side of the table. I picked up the card and read as follows:
"Mr. Raffles Holmes, London and New York."

"Raffles Holmes?" I cried in amazement.

"The same, Mr. Jenkins," said he. "I am the son of Sherlock Holmes, the
famous detective, and grandson of A. J. Raffles, the distinguished--er--ah--
cricketer, sir."

I gazed at him, dumb with astonishment.

"You've heard of my father, Sherlock Holmes?" asked my visitor.

I confessed that the name of the gentleman was not unfamiliar to me.

"And Mr. Raffles, my grandfather?" he persisted.

"If there ever was a story of that fascinating man that I have not read, Mr.
Holmes," said I, "I beg you will let me have it."

"Well, then," said he with that quick, nervous manner which proved him a
true son of Sherlock Holmes, "did it never occur to you as an extraordinary
happening, as you read of my father's wonderful powers as a detective, and
of Raffles' equally wonderful prowess as a--er--well, let us not mince
words--as a thief, Mr. Jenkins, the two men operating in England at the same
time, that no story ever appeared in which Sherlock Holmes's genius was
pitted against the subtly planned misdeeds of Mr. Raffles? Is it not
surprising that with two such men as they were, working out their destinies
in almost identical grooves of daily action, the