"Why, here is the Professor!" exclaimed Grigsby. "We'll make him show us some new puzzles."

It was Christmas Eve, and the club was nearly deserted. Only Grigsby, Hawkhurst, and myself, of all the members, seemed to be detained in town over the season of mirth and mince-pies. The man, however, who had just entered was a welcome addition to our number. "The Professor of Puzzles," as we had nicknamed him, was very popular at the club, and when, as on the present occasion, things got a little slow, his arrival was a positive blessing.

He was a man of middle age, cheery and kind-hearted, but inclined to be cynical. He had all his life dabbled in puzzles, problems, and enigmas of every kind, and what the Professor didn't know about these matters was admittedly not worth knowing. His puzzles always had a charm of their own, and this was mainly because he was so happy in dishing them up in palatable form.

"You are the man of all others that we were hoping would drop in," said Hawkhurst. "Have you got anything new?"

"I have always something new," was the reply, uttered with feigned conceit—for the Professor was really a modest man—"I'm simply glutted with ideas."

"Where do you get all your notions?" I asked.

"Everywhere, anywhere, during all my waking moments. Indeed, two or three of my best puzzles have come to me in my dreams."

"Then all the good ideas are not used up?"

"Certainly not. And all the old puzzles are capable of improvement, embellishment, and extension. Take, for example, magic squares. These were constructed in India before the Christian era, and introduced into Europe about the fourteenth century, when they were supposed to possess certain magical properties that I am afraid they have since lost. Any child can arrange the numbers one to nine in a square that will add up fifteen in eight ways; but you will see it can be developed into quite a new problem if you use coins instead of numbers."