ttle above, I find the joint that I was seeking; here is the
weak spot in the armour of society. Here is a want, a plaint, an offer
of substantial gratitude: '_Two Hundred Pounds Reward_.--The above
reward will be paid to any person giving information as to the identity
and whereabouts of a man observed yesterday in the neighbourhood of the
Green Park. He was over six feet in height, with shoulders
disproportionately broad, close shaved, with black moustaches, and
wearing a sealskin great-coat.' There, gentlemen, our fortune, if not
made, is founded."

"Do you then propose, dear boy, that we should turn detectives?"
inquired Challoner.

"Do I propose it? No, sir," cried Somerset. "It is reason, destiny, the
plain face of the world, that commands and imposes it. Here all our
merits tell; our manners, habit of the world, powers of conversation,
vast stores of unconnected knowledge, all that we are and have builds up
the character of the complete detective. It is, in short, the only
profession for a gentleman."

"The proposition is perhaps excessive," replied Challoner; "for hitherto
I own I have regarded it as of all dirty, sneaking, and ungentlemanly
trades, the least and lowest."

"To defend society?" asked Somerset; "to stake one's life for others? to
deracinate occult and powerful evil? I appeal to Mr. Godall. He, at
least, as a philosophic looker-on at life, will spit upon such
philistine opinions. He knows that the policeman, as he is called upon
continually to face greater odds, and that both worse equipped and for a
better cause, is in form and essence a more noble hero than the soldier.
Do you, by any chance, deceive yourself into supposing that a general
would either ask or expect, from the best army ever marshalled, and on
the most momentous battlefield, the conduct of a common constable at
Peckham Rye?"[1]

"I did not understand we were to join the force," said Challoner.

"Nor shall we. These are the hands; but here--here, sir, is the head,"
cried Somerset. "Enough; it is decreed. We shall hunt down this
miscreant in the sealskin coat."

"Suppose that we agreed," retorted Challoner, "you have no plan, no
knowledge; you know not where to seek for a beginning."

"Challoner!" cried Somerset, "is it possible that you hold the doctrine
of Free Will? And are you devoid of any tincture of philosophy, that you
should harp on such exploded fallacies? Chance, the blind Madonna of the
Pagan, rules this terrest