This is not a story of the Maharajah's emeralds; only a knot in the

landing-net of which I have already spoken. I may add with equal

frankness that Haggerty, upon his own initiative, never proceeded an

inch beyond the keyhole episode. It was one of his many failures; for,

unlike the great fictional detectives who never fail, Haggerty was

human, and did. It is only fair to add, however, that when he failed

only rarely did any one else succeed. If ever criminal investigation

was a man's calling, it was Haggerty's. He had infinite patience, the

heart of a lion and the strength of a gorilla. Had he been highly

educated, as a detective he would have been a fizzle; his mind would

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have been concerned with variant lofty thoughts, and the sordid would

have repelled him: and all crimes are painted on a background of

sordidness. In one thing Haggerty stood among his peers and topped

many of them; in his long record there was not one instance of his

arresting an innocent man.

So Haggerty had his failures; there are geniuses on both sides of the

law; and the pariah-dog is always just a bit quicker mentally than the

thoroughbred hound who hunts him; indeed, to save his hide he has to be.

Nearly every great fact is like a well-balanced kite; it has for its

tail a whimsy. Haggerty, on a certain day, received twenty-five

hundred dollars from the Hindu prince and five hundred more from the

hotel management. The detective bore up under the strain with stoic

complacency. "The Blind Madonna of the Pagan--Chance" always had her

hand upon his shoulder.

Kitty went to Bar Harbor, her mother to visit friends in Orange.

Thomas walked with a straight spine always; but it stiffened to think

that, without knowing a solitary item about his past, they trusted him

with the run of the house. The first day there was work to do; the

second day, a little less; the third, nothing at all. So he moped

about the great house, lonesome as a forgotten dog. He wrote a sonnet

on being lonesome, tore it up and flung the scraps into the

waste-basket. Once, he seated himself at the piano and picked out with

clumsy forefinger Walking Down the Old Kent Road. Kitty could play.

Often in the mornings, while at his desk, he had heard her; and oddly

enough, he seemed to sense her moods by what she played. (That's the

poet.) When she played Chopin or Chaminade she went about gaily all

the day; when she played Beethoven, Grieg or Bach, Thomas felt the

presence of shadows.




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