cast your acute eye over the enclosed statement. You are probably conversant with the facts and have views thereon. To me, coming fresh to it, it seems a case which calls aloud to Heaven. Will you return the papers to me when read.— Yours, ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE.

-it was sufficient for him to enter with all enthusiasm hand in hand into the contest-to rouse Birmingham University and everyone else he could -to devote all the time and energy possible for him, to write an analytical and critical article in the National Review, and not to rest till at length justice had been done or rather injustice had been undone. For even now justice has hardly been done, seeing that the unfortunate youth has received no compensation after spending three years in prison on a false charge.

No one can more appreciate the difficulties under which Sir Arthur Conan Doyle laboured than he who reads the voluminous correspondence that passed in this task. For there were serious dissensions in his own camp, which had to be adjusted, before he was able to cope with the mighty machine of the Law.

My father himself had an experience with criminals. One Sunday evening when he and my mother had come in from their usual Sunday walk, they were surprised to see traces of burglars. Shortly

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afterwards, these miscreants broke into another house and nearly killed the owner. They were brought to justice by means of a curious old pistol used by one of my mother's ancestors on board the Glatton in 1796, which the police found in the mangle of one of the burglars' wives.

My father was sometimes asked why he did not write a detective story, but he would shake his head, remarking that he could not find the time. One day, however, at a small gathering at home in March 1908, he was chatting with Mr A. C. Fox-Davies, when someone laughingly suggested that they should collaborate. The suggestion was instantly taken up by both, and agreed upon; and there and then my father carefully unfolded to his collaborator a plot to its finish, which he had for some time thought over. The book, of which this plot forms the basis, will shortly be published under the title of "Rastchuk's Revenge." As regards the name, Mr Fox-Davies writes to me:

"This was the title your father gave to his plot. I asked him why he chose it but he had no special reason-simply thought it would be a catching title. I am sorry I never asked him to spell the name, as I don't know where he got Rastchuk as a surname from. The man was to be a Creole with more than a touch of the Tar Brush."

CHAPTER XIV

TASTES AND VIEWS

H

E cared little for theatres and places of entertainment. If he had a spare evening, he enjoyed nothing better than to spend it amidst a small informal gathering at home.

To be the centre of a circle of hearers, who were as much delighted in listening to his discourse as he was in talking to them, gave him more pleasure than any entertainment could give him.

But if he was a good talker, he was also a good listener, and there were few subjects in which he could not take some interest; for he was always eager for information of any description.

Mr Walter Crane says:

With Churton Collins was always an atmosphere of literary distinction and fine culture, which, however, did not in any way obscure his large humanity and genial courtesy.

Of him, indeed, it might be truly said that he bore his weight of learning "lightly, like a flower.' One felt that he brought the light of a keen but

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kindly intellect to bear upon every subject upon which the table-talk might turn.

His admiration, or one might say his adoration, of Shakespeare's genius made him quick to sympathise with the efforts of those who were making the works of our greatest dramatic poet more familiar to the world by their presentations of his plays. With Mr J. H. Leigh, who was producing with Mr F. R. Benson plays which are less familiar to the theatre-goer, such as "Timon of Athens," he had many interesting conversations. Nor was his interest confined to Shakespearean representations. The beautiful plays produced by Mr William Poel, particularly “ Everyman," were such as to draw from him a hearty appreciation. He much admired too the efforts of Sir Herbert Beerbohm Tree, who had been one of the first to recognise the genius of Mr Stephen Phillips by producing three of his plays, though Sir George Alexander was the first to undertake the somewhat hazardous experiment of producing Phillips' first play, "Paolo and Francesca."

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Mr Stephen Phillips was at one time a frequent guest at our house, and, when in the mood, was a brilliant talker. He was full of big ideas which he outlined in a vague way with broad touches here and there, his face lighting up with enthusiasm,

as he warmed to his subject. At such times he seemed inspired, and it made one feel that if only these great ideas took concrete form, all the fine work he had hitherto done would appear little in comparison. And he seemed to think this himself. Phillips was averse to meeting strangers, and if they were present, he would generally retire into his shell. Not so my father, who could invariably be drawn to discourse on any of his favourite subjects, and, once set going, his hearers soon became oblivious of the passing hours, till at length they realised with a start that midnight had long since passed and the morrow was well on its

way.

Sometimes the conversation at these little gatherings took a lighter turn, and stories of all descriptions were related. If a particular anecdote impressed him, he would afterwards jot it down in his commonplace book. They would form a small collection in themselves. Though many of these have now perhaps reached a ripe old age, there are one or two which, though not new, may not be quite so well known :

A man was sent to take an inventory of the furniture of a house. As he was gone a long time, he was sought for and was eventually found hopelessly drunk with a whisky bottle, which he had found, by his side. On referring to his book,