I could not help but feel sorry for Mrs. Judson, our landlady and housekeeper, for the many times she had put up with my friend and associate, Basil of Baker Street. Not only was the privacy of her flat frequently invaded (even in the late hours) by odd and sometimes unsavoury visitors, but Basil's eccentric behaviour often got on the poor woman's nerves. What with his sloppiness, his playing the violin at awkward hours, his strange and noisy (and sometimes rather smelly) experiments, not to mention the danger that his profession attracted -- by and large, Basil was the worst tenant in London. However, he paid her well for his lodgings, and during the time that I lived with him, Basil could long since have owned the entire house.

Yet despite the times Basil tried her patience, Mrs. Judson respected him and was devoted to him -- which was all the more obvious when she came to me with the terrible news of Basil's illness.

I was just returning from a reunion in Kent with some old comrades from my military service in Afghanistan, to find Mrs. Judson waiting for me at the train station. I could see that she had been crying, and I was quite worried -- especially when I saw that Basil was not there to greet me.

"Dr. Dawson," she sniffled, "it's Mr. Basil, sir. You've got to come quickly!"

"What's wrong?" I asked in alarm.

Mrs. Judson began to sob. "I'm afraid he's dying, Doctor," she said. "He took sick a few days ago, and the past three days he's been getting worse. I begged him to let me get a doctor, but he wouldn't allow it.

"I couldn't bear it any longer this morning, sir -- not when I saw how thin he'd gotten, and the way he looked at me with those big bright eyes of his. 'I'm going for a doctor now, Mr. Basil,' I said, 'whether you like it or not!' 'Then I want Dawson,' he said. 'Dawson, and no one else!' I beg you, Doctor, come post-haste -- for I doubt he'll last the day."

I was deeply shocked, for up to that moment no such news had reached me at all. Mrs. Judson and I caught the first coach going toward Baker Street, and as we rode on, I asked her to tell me more.

"I fear I haven't much to tell you, sir...Mr. Basil was working on a case down by the riverfront district, and came home quite ill. Three days ago, the poor fellow took to his bed, and couldn't eat or drink anything."

"Dear God! Why didn't you get him a doctor sooner, Mrs. Judson?"

"He wouldn't let me, sir. I needn't tell you how stubborn and overbearing he is, and I didn't dare to defy him. But you'll find he's not long for this world, just by looking at him."

When we reached Baker Street, and I came to Basil's room, nothing had prepared me for the wretched state my poor friend was in. His feverish eyes blazed like coal lamps, and his face was so thin that I could almost see his cheekbones. His mouth was dry and sticky, and when he spoke, his voice was frail and hoarse. He twitched all over from time to time, as if in great pain. He was truly a pitiable sight, and as he lay in his sick-bed staring at me, my heart fully went out to him.

But I could see in Basil's eyes that he recognised me, and he managed a weak smile.

"I say, Dawson, you've found me in quite a bad way," he whispered, with something of the old spirit yet in his voice.

"Dear boy--" I started up to his bed, but Basil suddenly became quite hysterical.

"Stay BACK, Dawson !!! DON'T come any further!" he snarled, in that sharp tone he often used when he was extremely upset. "Stand back, I say -- come near me again and I shall order you to leave!"

"But why?" I asked, quite startled.

"Because I said so. And that's good enough reason for you!"

I could see now what poor Mrs. Judson had been dealing with. Basil was being quite stubborn and even more masterful than I remembered. But it broke my heart to see how spent and feeble he was.

"I only want to help you, my friend," I pleaded.

"Then just do as I say, and no more. You would help me best that way, Dawson."

I sighed heavily. "Very well, Basil..."

He lay back, panting, and his expression softened.

"Don't be angry with me, old friend," he pleaded, as he gazed pitifully at me.

Poor Basil. Only a cad would have been angry with him while he was in such agony.

"After all," he rasped, "I'm only doing this for your sake."

"But what do you mean, Basil?"

"I know what this disease is....it's a tropical ailment from the Orient. Not much research has been done on it yet, but this much I know...it is not only quite deadly, but frightfully contagious by touch. Therefore, Dawson, I pray you, keep your distance!" Basil blurted feverishly.

"Basil, I'm a doctor, for Heaven's sake! D'you think I'd let a thing like that worry me? It wouldn't prevent me from caring for a stranger -- let alone so old a friend as yourself!"

I approached Basil once again, but the fierce anger in his eyes held me back.

"I shall go on speaking to you only if you stay put," he warned, "otherwise, you will leave my room immediately."

Such is my awe and respect of my friend Basil that I am always faithful, obeying his wishes whether I understand them or not. But there are times when I am a doctor first and a detective second, and this time was now. I would obey Basil's orders any other time, but while I was in his sick-room, he would heed mine.

"Basil," I said stubbornly, "you're being quite childish and erratic -- even for yourself. I don't care what you say, I will examine you and take care of this strange malady as well as I can."

Basil glared daggers at me.

"If I am to be given a doctor against my will, Dawson, then let me at least have someone I can rely upon."

"But surely you can rely on me!"

"On your friendship, most assuredly, Dawson. But after all, you are a mere surgeon with limited medical experience, and certainly none at all in ailments like this; and so I cannot count upon your nursing. I am sorry to hurt your feelings, old chap, but I must be honest about this."

I was deeply hurt that Basil would think of me that way.

"You've never spoken to me this way before, Basil. It proves that you are not in your right mind, and desperately need care of some sort. But if you can't trust me, then I'll oblige you. However, you must see a doctor in any case, and I know some of the finest physicians in London. If you think I'm going to stand here and let you die without even trying to help you or finding someone who can, you're quite mistaken."

Basil gave a mournful groan, almost a sob. "Oh, Dawson -- I know that you mean well! But do you know anything of exotic tropical diseases, other than malaria?"

"I'm afraid not," I had to admit.

Basil's voice halted at each sentence as he explained, "There are the most horrific types of sickness in the Orient, Doctor, as I found out while working at a murder case related to one of them. And it was while investigating, and inquiring among some Chinese sailors, that I became infected with it. My poor friend, there is nothing that you can do to help me."

"Perhaps," I said, "but I won't give up. I happen to know a chap who is the greatest expert on tropical diseases in the city. Argue with me all you like, Basil -- but I am going to bring him here!"

As I turned towards the door, what happened next was most alarming. Basil sprang wildly from his bed like a cat with its tail on fire, and locked the door before I could even try to open it. Afterwards, he staggered back to his bed and stood by the post, gasping for breath, so wearied was he by the sudden violence of his actions.

"Don't even think to take the key from me, Dawson," he panted. "You're going to stay with me until I decide to let you leave. But I know you've only my good at heart. Just let me rest awhile." He glanced up at the clock. "It's four o'clock right now...at six, I'll let you go."

"Basil, this is insane..."

"Humour a sick friend, Dawson, and give me only two hours. I promise you can leave afterwards."

"It appears that I have no choice."

"That's right, you haven't." My friend settled painfully into his bed. "I can cover myself up, Dawson, thank you -- you mustn't come near me. And one other thing: you will bring back the person I choose, not the one you mentioned."

"As you wish..."

"Now you're showing good sense, Dawson. Meanwhile, pray excuse me -- I am most exhausted. You'll find some books over in the corner there, so busy yourself with those. At six o'clock, we shall resume our conversation."

But Basil would end up speaking to me even sooner than that, and under circumstances even more disturbing than the moment he had leapt up to lock me in his room.

I stood for a few minutes watching him; he was almost buried under his blankets and appeared to be sleeping. I didn't feel up to reading, however, so I walked quietly around Basil's room, looking at the pictures of famous criminals that my friend had tracked down through the years. My eyes happened to fall upon the mantelpiece, which was scattered with pipes, tobacco pouches, and all sorts of debris.

In the middle of all this mess stood a tiny black and white ivory box with a sliding lid. It was quite a fascinating little object, and I reached for it to give it a closer look...

Suddenly, there was a blood-curdling shriek that you could have heard clear down Baker Street. It chilled me to the very marrow of my bones, and I turned to see poor Basil staring at me, his face frantic and his eyes wide with horror. I stood aghast, the little box still in my hand.

"PUT IT DOWN!!! Put that thing down!!! THIS minute, d'you hear me???" he screeched. In a panic, I put the box back up on the mantelpiece, and watched as Basil collapsed back into his pillow with a sigh of relief.

"Kindly leave my things alone, Dawson!" he snapped. "I can't bear to have my belongings disturbed -- you know that very well. You irritate me no end, Dawson! What kind of doctor are you? You'd drive your patients to Bedlam. For pity's sake, old man, sit down and behave yourself, and let me get some rest!"

I was most devastated at Basil's vicious tirade; but it served to show me how grievous his condition was, and how disordered his reason had become. To see the ruin of a mind so noble and brilliant as Basil's was quite tragic indeed.

I sat quietly in my chair, brooding unhappily over the situation, until the clock struck six. Then Basil began to speak again, but by this time he was quite delirious.

"Have you any coins in your pocket, Dawson?"

"Why, yes."

"Silver?"

"Quite a bit."

"And how many half-crowns?"

"Five."

"Oh, drat -- not quite enough, Dawson! That's much too bad. You'll just have to put them all in your watch-pocket. And all the other coins can go in your trouser-pocket...that's right! Thank you, Dawson...now you're evenly balanced."

I stared in dismay, for the poor boy was clearly out of his mind. Basil began to shudder and gave a bone-shaking cough.

"Please light the gas lamp, Dawson...but do be careful that you only leave it half lit. Thank you. You don't have to draw down the blinds, but be so kind as to put some of my letters and papers on this table close to me. Good boy! And use those sugar- tongs there to lift up that little ivory box, and put it among the papers! Excellent! Now, go and fetch Mr. Moleverton Smythe of 13 Lower Burke Street."

By now, I was no longer anxious to find a doctor, for I was afraid to leave Basil in such a state. But as stubbornly as he'd refused help earlier, he was now most insistent upon getting it.

"I've never heard of him," I said.

"Most likely not, Dawson, because the man who can help me is not a doctor, but a botanist. Mr. Moleverton Smythe is well known in Sumatra, his country of residence, but he has been visiting London for quite some time. Because the same sickness that I now have had once afflicted the coolies on his plantation, he did some research on it -- that led to a most horrendous act on his part.

"He is a creature of habit, my good Dawson, and I knew he would not be home before six o'clock -- which is precisely why I have kept you here until then. If you could get him over here somehow, and allow him to prove his vast knowledge of this ailment -- the study of which has been his pet subject -- I am positive that he can help me."

During this entire speech, poor Basil often had to pause for breath, his paws clenching tightly from time to time with obvious pain. He now looked even worse than when I had first seen him, and his hollow eyes had become quite glazed. In spite of his suffering and delirium, however, he still had that old jauntiness in his words that were so typical of him. To his very last breath, he would still be Basil of Baker Street.

"Tell him exactly how you've left me," he said, "and spare him no details, Dawson: that here I lie, a pathetic dying mouse -- dying and most out of his head..." Suddenly a sickly smile came to Basil's lips, and he looked away from me as if an interesting idea had come to him. "I say, Dawson...where did they get that absurd notion that the moon is madeof green cheese? I'm more of the opinion that it's made of blue cheese, most likely a fine Stilton. Oh, mercy, but my mind is wandering so! How ironic that my brain should control my brain! What had I been telling you, dear Dawson?"

"What to say to Mr. Moleverton Smythe."

"Yes, yes...it's a matter of life or death, Dawson -- beg him to come, even though there is no kindness between us. You see, Dawson, his nephew Vincent died under most questionable circumstances, and I didn't hide my suspicions from this fellow. The poor boy had suffered greatly before he died, and Moleverton Smythe has long resented me for accusing him. You must appeal to his better nature, if he has one. Persuade him to come any way you can, Dawson, for no one but he can save me now!"

"I'll get him here if I have to knock him cold and drag him here, Basil."

"You'll do no such thing, Dawson. He must come of his own will, and you must return before he gets here -- find any excuse not to come with him, even if you have to lie. Please remember that, Doctor. I know you won't let me down...you never have...but suppose the moon is made of Roquefort or Gorgonzola, after all?"

Here Basil stopped, and put a paw to his forehead in great distress.

"Ah!" he cried weakly. "God help me, what's become of my mind? Hurry, Dawson...and don't forget all I've told you!"

I had to leave Basil with the painful image of this extraordinary genius now prattling foolishly like a half-wit boy. Luckily, he had given me the key to his room, and so at least he could not lock himself inside. Mrs. Judson stood in the hallway shaking like a leaf and crying, and I asked her to keep an eye on him. As I went for the door, I could hear Basil's weak voice from his room, intoning some delirious chant.

Sick at heart, but with hope still in my mind, I stood out in the foggy November night waiting for a cab; just then, someone approached me from up the street. It was our old colleague, Inspector Vole of the Yard.

"Good evening, Dr. Dawson," he declared. "And how is Mr. Basil?"

"He's desperately ill," I replied sadly.

I was astonished at the expression on the Inspector's face. Not only did he not appear disturbed by the news, but actually seemed to be pleased -- unless I was imagining things.

"I'd been hearing rumours about that," he said, just before a cab came up and I had to leave him, still puzzling over his behaviour.

I jumped off at Lower Burke Street, to Number 13, as Basil had directed me. Mr. Moleverton Smythe's residence was located in the cellar of a fine old mansion, and appeared quite respectable and stately, down to the solemn mouse butler who answered the door. The botanist was very well-off indeed, as I could tell from the tinted electric lighting from within the house.

"Ah, yes...Mr. Moleverton Smythe is in, sir!" said the butler, taking my card. "Dr. David Q. Dawson, I see...very good, sir! I shall announce you."

But from the sound of the conversation in his study, Mr. Smythe was most unwilling to see me, and could have cared less who I was, despite gentle urgings from his butler.

"I've told you constantly, Sharples, that my work must not be disturbed by anyone!" came a whining and most irritating voice. "Tell him I'm not here! Tell him to come in the morning, if he absolutely must see me --tomorrow morning, or not at all!"

The thought of poor Basil waiting and suffering, each minute like an eternity until I could bring him help, made me most unsympathetic to the botanist's complaints. The devil take his privacy! My friend's life was far more important.

Before Sharples could regretfully turn me away, I pushed my way into the house and burst into Mr. Smythe's study.I heard an outraged howl, and up from an easy chair by the hearth jumped a mole, whose appearance seemed to fit well with his character. He was a most unattractive fellow, with a great bloated face and misshapen head, on which a tiny purple smoking-cap sat jauntily. He looked less like a mole than a pig -- yet as huge as his head was, his body was surprisingly small and deformed...suggesting that he had been quite sickly as a child.

I could barely see Smythe's tiny eyes behind the smoked glasses he wore, but I was certain he was glaring at me furiously. "How dare you disturb me at this hour?" he screeched. "You could have seen me tomorrow morning! What is it that can't possibly wait until then?"

"My apologies," I said, "but it's most urgent, sir! You see, it's Mr. Basil of Baker Street--"

The minute I mentioned my friend's name, the botanist's expression changed dramatically. The anger left his face and he suddenly seemed most anxious to know my business.

"Have you seen Mr. Basil?" he asked.

"Yes, I've just left him."

"And what of him? How is he?"

"He's very, very ill. I came to you for his sake."

By now, Mr. Moleverton Smythe was quite eager to hear all the details, and sitting down, motioned me to a chair. The mirror over his mantelpiece happened to reflect his face, and for a moment I thought I saw a cruel and twisted smile. But I decided it was merely a nervous twitch, for when he turned to face me, he seemed genuinely concerned.

"I'm terribly sorry to hear that," he said. "I've only known Mr. Basil through some recent business I had with him; but from what I know of him, I highly respect him and his talents. His hobby is dealing with crime, as mine is with exotic diseases. There is a parallel in our professions, sir -- Mr. Basil is as devoted to his pursuit of criminals, as I am to my study of micro-organisms.

"Do you see those, Doctor?" The botanist pointed to a row of bottles and jars on a nearby shelf, explaining that they held bacteria cultures. "Those are my gaols, in which I've imprisoned some of the world's worst villains of all."

"Mr. Basil said you were an expert on tropical diseases, which is why he begs you to come and see him. He spoke most highly of your talents and believes that you are the only person in London who can save him."

The botanist gave such a start that his smoking-cap fell to the floor.

"And what makes him think that I could help him?" he asked.

"Because you understand so well about Asiatic diseases."

"But how does Mr. Basil know that his disease is of Asiatic origin?"

"He had been researching it at the waterfront, among some Chinese sailors -- and sadly, contracted it himself."

Mr. Moleverton Smythe picked up his little cap with an oily smile.

"Well, well," he said cheerfully, "if that's what's happened, I don't think you've much to worry about, Doctor. How long has he been sick?"

"Three days."

"Does he act delirious?"

"I'm afraid so," I sighed, remembering Basil's pitiable jabbering.

"Tch. That does sound bad. It'd be most unkind not to see him. I do hate to have my work interrupted, Dr. Dawson, but in this case, I'm glad to make an exception. I'll come with you post-haste."

"I have other errands, so could you make it there alone?" I asked, remembering Basil's warning to arrive first.

"Most assuredly. I remember Mr. Basil's address. I'll be there in half an hour or so."

I returned to Basil's room as quickly as possible, worried sick that he was now beyond all help. But I was greatly relieved to see that he was not only still alive, but seemed to have rallied a little. He was still quite gaunt and fevered, but now seemed more in his right mind. Weak though his voice was, he at least spoke as sensibly as the headstrong mouse detective I remembered.

"Have you seen him, Dawson?"

"Yes, he's coming."

"Splendid, Dawson -- splendid! I knew I could count on you."

"He wanted to come with me," I said, "but I made sure he didn't."

"Good. It would not have been wise for him to do that. And did he ask what was wrong with me?"

"Yes. I explained about your work at the waterfront."

"Good fellow! Now, Dawson, you've done all that so faithful a friend can do. You must now make yourself scarce."

"But I need to hear Mr. Smythe's opinion, Basil..."

"Certainly, and so you shall! But you'll find his opinion to be far more honest and revealing if he feels that he's alone with me. There's just enough room behind the head of my bed for you, Dawson."

"But Basil--"

"It's the only way, Dawson, so please do as I ask. There are few places to hide in this room where you can listen without causing suspicion on our visitor's part; but that very spot would be most perfect."

He suddenly sat up, a tense determination in his drawn face. "I hear coach wheels outside -- quickly, dear friend, hide! When Mr. Smythe gets here, listen as you never have before. Don't move, and don't speak -- no matter what happens!"

As I hid at the head of Basil's bed, I heard him once again faltering and mumbling deliriously. I was barely hidden before I heard footsteps, and the opening and closing of Basil's door. Then I heard nothing, except for my friend's heavy breathing and wheezing, yet somehow I could guess that Mr. Moleverton Smythe was standing by Basil's bed and looking down at him.

Finally I heard his voice.

"Basil!" he exclaimed. "Basil -- are you awake?" There was a sound of someone being shaken roughly.

"Mr. Smythe?" Basil muttered weakly. "Is it really you? I didn't dare hope that you would come here."

The botanist chuckled.

"I'm sure you didn't, Basil. But indeed, I have. Heaping 'coals of fire' on your head, eh?"

"It was good of you to do so, and I'm most grateful. I'm much appreciative of your special knowledge."

Our visitor gave an ugly laugh. "I'm quite flattered," he said sarcastically. "I'm happy to say you're the only person in London who can. You know what's wrong with you, don't you?"

"The same ailment," said Basil, "that you know of."

"Oh, and do you recognise its symptoms?"

"I do...and only too well."

"Ah, yes. I wouldn't be a bit surprised, Mr. Basil -- not one bit! And it's so much the worse for you. Poor Vincent...he was dead after only four days...and such a strong young chap, too. And as you'd mentioned then, it was quite startling that he should have picked up a rare Oriental disease in the heart of London -- and a malady that I had included in my studies. Strange coincidence, isn't it, Basil? How clever of you to see that -- but it wasn't very kind of you to blame my nephew's death on me, was it?"

"I knew that you killed him."

"Oh, really? As if you could prove it. But what cheek you have, spreading such atrocious tales about me -- and now that you're ill, you dare come crawling to me for help? And why should I care if you live or die?" I heard water being poured, and then silence, except for Basil's laboured breathing.

"Please," he gasped painfully, "give me the water!"

"You're most near the end, Basil, but I don't want you to go yet -- not till I've had my say. That's the only reason I'm giving you any water. There you are, and mind you don't spill it! That's good. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

Basil groaned, "I'll forget the whole thing...I swear it. But I beg of you, please help me!"

"You'll forget what?"

"About Vincent Savitch's death. You practically admitted that you did it. But I'll forget it..."

"It doesn't matter now whether you forget it or not. I'm no longer afraid of seeing you in the witness box -- but you'll soon be in another sort of box, Mr. Basil, if you know what I mean! I no longer care what you know or don't know about my nephew. We're not talking about him any more -- but about you.

"That chap who came to see me -- I don't recall his name -- he said that you caught that disease from some Chinese at the riverfront."

"Yes...I can't imagine how else."

"But sure you can. You're very proud of your intelligence, Basil. You think you're quite the clever fellow, don't you? Well, this time, you've met your match. Now think a bit harder, Basil -- isn't there some other way you could have been infected?"

"I don't know...my mind is wandering...can't you help me a little?"

"Certainly I'll help you -- I'll help you understand what's happening to you and how it happened. I'd like you to know that -- before you die."

"Please," moaned my poor friend, "at least give me something for the pain!"

"It hurts, doesn't it? Yes, I understand those poor coolies who caught it did quite a lot of wailing before the end. You've cramps fairly tying you in knots, eh?"

"Yes...yes!!!"

"Well you can still hear me, so you're going to listen. Don't you remember anything strange happening, just before you got so sick?"

"No..."

" Think !"

"I can't!"

"I'll refresh your memory, then. Do you remember a package in the post?"

"The post?" gasped Basil.

"A little box, perhaps?"

"I...don't know...I think I'm going to faint..."

"Listen to me , Basil!!!" My poor friend gave a cry of anguish as there came a sound of Moleverton Smythe shaking him brutally, and I wanted desperately to jump out and thrash Basil's tormentor.

"Basil, you must and shall hear me!!! Do you remember a small ivory box, that came but a few days ago? You must have opened it -- do you remember?"

"Yes, I opened it...there was a spring in it, a sharp one. A very bad joke, I thought--"

"Oh, it was no joke, old boy, as you've found to your sorrow. What a fool you were! Well, you've picked the wrong business to stick your long nose into, and now you're getting your just deserts. Who asked you to trifle with me? If you had minded your own business, I wouldn't have harmed you."

"Merciful Heavens," cried Basil, "now I remember! The spring cut me...and it came from that box, there on the table!"

"That very box, by Jove -- and it shall leave this room in my pocket and end up in my fireplace, with no one any the wiser. And there goes your last bit of evidence, my friend. But now you have the truth, Basil -- and you will die knowing who killed you. You knew too much of what happened to my nephew Vincent, and now you are going to share his fate." The botanist laughed cruelly. "Help you, indeed! On the contrary, Mr. Basil of Baker Street, I shall have the pleasure of sitting here and watching you die!"

By this time, Basil's voice had sunk to barely a whisper.

"What was that?" asked Smythe, with mock politeness. "Turn up the lamp, you say? Ah, the darkness is approaching at last, isn't it? Most assuredly, dear boy, so I can see you all the better." I could hear him walk across the room, which suddenly became brighter. "Now," he sneered, "is there anything else I can do for you before you go?"

"Yes -- a match and a cigarette, if you please!"

It was all I could do to keep from shouting with joy and surprise, for Basil was now speaking in his normal voice...a bit weak, but the bold and jaunty voice I knew so well. There was a long silence, and now I could imagine that a most bewildered Smythe was staring down at his intended victim.

"I say, what's going on here?" he said hoarsely.

"You've quite underestimated me, Mr. Smythe," Basil said triumphantly. "Not to mention my flair for acting. It's true that for these three days I've had no food or drink whatever, until you were so 'kind' as to give me that glass of water. But I've missed my tobacco more than anything. Ah, here are some cigarettes!" I heard a match being struck, then some movements outside the bedroom door.

"Hello!" Basil exclaimed. "I believe I hear a friend of mine outside!"

Just then, the door opened and in walked Inspector Vole.

"You've come just in time, Inspector," declared my friend. "Here is your man!"

The officer accompanying the Inspector gave Smythe the usual cautions, adding that he was arresting him for the murder of Vincent Savitch.

"Not to mention the attempted murder of one Basil of Baker Street," added my friend, chuckling. "Mr. Moleverton Smythe was good enough to save a poor invalid trouble and signal you, Inspector, by turning up the gas lamp. Incidentally, there is a small box in his right-hand pocket, which you'd do well to remove -- but carefully. Put it upon my mantelpiece, for we may need it in Mr. Smythe's trial."

I could hear sounds of an attempt to run and a scuffling, followed by the sound of metal and a yelp of pain.

"Settle down, Mr. Smythe, or you'll get yourself hurt," said Inspector Vole. I could hear handcuffs being closed.

"You think you've trapped me, do you, Basil?" snarled Smythe. "You'll be made the fool of, not I! He asked me to come here to help him, Inspector...I felt sorry for him and I came! Now he'll claim I confessed to an imaginary murder that his insane mind thought up! Well, say whatever you want to, Basil -- it's only my word against yours!"

"Heavens, I quite forgot!" cried Basil, laughing lightly. "You can come out now, Dawson, and I'm frightfully sorry to have overlooked you! I don't have to introduce you to Mr. Moleverton Smythe, however, for you've already met him. Mr. Smythe, it's now your word against two witnesses. And as to your 'helping' me, don't waste your breath with so black a lie, sir. You had no compassion for your own flesh and blood -- should I have expected your heart to soften for an enemy?

"I'll be down to the Station in a while, Inspector," he called, as Smythe was led off. "I've a good deal of freshening up to do."

"That did me a world of good," Basil sighed, after enjoying some cheese biscuits and a glass of claret while cleaning up and getting dressed. "But as you know, Dawson, my personal habits are most unusual, and so the 'torture' I put myself through wasn't as hard on me as one might think. But I had to make Mrs. Judson believe that I was in fact in a dying condition, and you as well -- all the better to dupe Mr. Smythe, which was the point of my little 'performance'. I know him to be as vengeful as he is murderous, and would be all too willing to come and see his handiwork."

"But how did you change your appearance, Basil? You certainly looked as though you'd been wasting away!"

"Fasting for three days did not make me any handsomer, Dawson. The rest I took care of quite easily with a few cosmetics, beeswax and vaseline, and a bit of belladonna in my eyes -- all to make me appear as ill as I pretended to be. And all that silly twaddle about your coins, the moon being made of cheese or any other nonsense would make anyone think I was out of my head!"

"Then since you weren't really ill," I asked, "why wouldn't you let me near you?"

"Dawson, do you really believe that I have no respect for your medical expertise? You'd have noticed all too quickly that a supposedly dying mouse had neither a rise of pulse, nor a real fever, however weak he might be. But I could fool you at four yards away. All the easier to lure Smythe into my trap.

"Take care not to touch that ivory box, Dawson," he warned. "Just look at it sideways, and you'll see where that sharp spring, much like a serpent's tooth, jumps out just as you open it. I strongly believe that it was such a device, infected with one of Smythe's bacteria cultures, that brought about poor Mr. Savitch's death -- so that the boy's inheritance would fall to his monstrous uncle.

"You see, Dawson, in a profession so dangerous as mine, I take no chances with my post -- much less with any packages I might receive. Once I saw Smythe's little 'present', I knew exactly what he was up to. Only by making him believe that his plan had worked could I surprise a confession out of him. And I don't mind saying, that I'm quite proud of how it worked out. Pray help me on with my cape, Dawson, thank you. And when our business at the police-station is through, we could both do with a fine dinner at Simpson's."