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circumstantial evidence in the face of all common human probability, as you did, Reeves, when you wanted to convict a chump like Marryatt of murder on the strength of a chain of silly coincidences."

"All this comes out of your diary, I suppose?"

"No, I haven't written it up yet. I'm going to write it up, about half an hour from now, that's why you're getting all this thrown at you. You see, when I think of you talking through that metaphone, it strikes me as a splendid allegory of the whole historical method in criticism⁠—or rather, that abuse of the historical method which commonly usurps the title. The man who has theories about history is usually just that⁠—a man talking down the metaphone, making a series of false statements to a person who isn't there, and defying him to disprove them."

"Gordon, I believe you're going to solve the problem of my vocation. I've always hankered after being an amateur detective, but it seems to me the job is less attractive than I supposed⁠—facts will keep coming in. But, by your way of it, it sounds as if I might be a success in one of the learned professions."

"Certainly. Be an anthropologist, Reeves. Fish up a lot of facts, alleged on very doubtful authority, about primitive man⁠—his marriage ceremonies, his burial customs, his system of land tenure. Look at the whole mass of facts squint-eyed until you can see a theory in it. Embrace the theory; trot out all the facts which support your theory; write a long appendix on all the facts which contradict your