“Why don’t you express wonder that I knew you were a journalist? Watson always does.”

“There is only one Watson,” I protested. “Besides, it has always seemed to me that he was singularly obtuse. Unless you lent him your spectacles, Watson couldn’t hold down a job in the city room of a New York daily for twenty-four hours. I’m not a journalist, but I acknowledge that ‘newspaper man’ is written all over me, from the pencil in my pocket to my ‘nose for news,’ which is abnormally developed. It’s the easiest thing in the world to tell a newspaper man by his nose, an actor by his clothes and a detective by his cocaine syringe. For instance, you are—”

“The shade of Sherlock Holmes, just returned from a trip to earth. But I really died when I fell over the cliff. That fall made Conan Doyle a Sir. He thought that if he could bring me back to life I would make him an Earl. He tried to breathe in me the breath of life, but while the[Pg 18] dear public wept at my death, they viewed my resurrection with indifference. Ghost stories have been exorcised for all time, so I’m back here for good.”

[Pg 18]

“Did Satan send for you?”

“Yes, to assist him in ultimately securing the three persons on earth whom he is most eagerly awaiting—David Belasco, John Kendrick Bangs, and Marie Corelli.

“The author of the ‘Darling of the Gods,’ in order to lend realism to the final scene, made a compact with Satan to reproduce Hades on the New York stage; in return he is to give his soul—or his salary—as soon as the play has run its course. That’s the reason Belasco prolonged the run of ‘The Darling of the Gods,’ even after it ceased to pay expenses. A theatrical advance agent, who is to transfer the entire production to Hades, was here several weeks ago and said that the thousandth performance had been reached. Yo San, who is serving her thousand years of penance—a year for each day of the play’s run—says she never would have thought of being wicked if Belasco had not prompted her from the wings. The man who could write ‘To lie a little is better than to be unhappy much’ deserves a place alongside of George Washington.”

“What! Is the father of his country here, too?”

“Oh, yes! they’re all here. Washington is[Pg 19] more of a father than ever. He had no family in life, but he has one here larger than he likes—the children of the only woman he never loved. It’s strange how many women go out of their way to 

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