Come, Watson, Come!" He Cried. The Game

Excellent!" I Cried. "elementary," Said He.

Then Away Out In The Woods I Heard That Kind Of A Sound That A Ghost Makes When It Wants To Tell About Something That's On Its Mind And Can't Make Itself Understood, And So Can't Rest Easy In Its Grave, And Has To Go About That Way Every Night Grieving. As You Value Your Life Or Your Reason Keep Away From The Moor.

We Must Look For Consistency. Where There Is A Want Of It We Must Suspect Deception.

There Is A Danger There - A Very Real Danger To Humanity. Consider, Watson, That The Material, The Sensual, The Worldly Would All Prolong Their Worthless Lives. The Spiritual Would Not Avoid The Call To Something Higher. It Would Be The Survival Of The Least Fit. What Sort Of Cesspool May Not Our Poor World Become?

I Am An Omnivorous Reader With A Strangely Retentive Memory For Trifles.