Our host chuckled. “Oh, yes, of course.” He looked at his guests. “If you read the Holmes stories, you will note from time to time that Watson talks of articles-‘little monographs, ’ he calls them-that Holmes has written about any number of subjects, ranging from beekeeping to medicine to musical criticism. Probably the most famous is his treatise on tobaccos and their ashes. All of these articles appeared in periodicals of the times, and all anonymously. So… nothing conclusive, but it is an interesting array of facts, isn’t it?” He stood up. “I invite you all to look through the reference books I have here, and please, help yourselves to the brandy.”

Everyone stood up and gravitated toward the center table. General murmuring once again filled the room. After a few moments, I found myself again with Kevin.

“Very interesting theory,” I said.

“You seemed a bit skeptical,” he answered lightly, “but it does sound strange on the first hearing, especially if, as you’ve said, you’ve never read Conan Doyle.”

“Is Holmes really that good?”

He smiled. “He is the Master-of deduction, of disguise, of detection.”

I thought for a moment. “Presumably, such a man-a man skilled in the art of detection-would have no trouble escaping detection himself.”

“Quite so,” Kevin said, “which is why those who have sought to authenticate the Holmes legend have had such a time of it.”

I finished my drink and looked at my watch. Quarter past eleven, and I had students in the morning. I asked Kevin if he were going home by way of Cambridge, and would he mind giving a skeptical friend a lift. We said our good-byes and thanked Arrowroot, then stepped out into the bitter Boston night.

I didn’t have occasion to think again of that night until nearly five months later.

On January 8, 1983, I received the happy news that four of my songs had been accepted for a television premiere and, with the arrival of a royalty advance, I found myself, at least by my earlier standards, a rich man.