Detective Fiction Weekly. Vol. 118, No. 6, April 16, 1938

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If thine hobby offend thee, put it away, for it is better to be without a hobby than to be condemned to everlasting hellfire

Murray Hobart was sitting in his den under a very strong shaded light, gazing through a magnifying glass at a small flat object held up by his other hand with a tiny pair of tweezers, when someone knocked at the closed door. He put down the tweezers first, with infinite care, then the glass, and then he got up with an air of great annoyance, strode over to the door and unlocked it.

“Well?” he scowled. “Is the house on fire? If it’s anything less than that, I’ll have your—”

The servant standing out there said apologetically, “I know, Mr. Hobart. I told him you were going over your collection and couldn’t be disturbed, but—”

“Who is it?”

“It’s an Inspector Foster on the wire, sir.”

“I don’t know any Foster,” snapped his employer irritably. “Get rid of him. Tell him I’m not—” He gestured. “Wait a minute. Inspector, did you say? Inspector of what?”

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