It was a cold, dark night, and a roaring fire was merrily crackling to itself in the grate as I turned to my friend, the brilliant Algernon Seeker, in our rooms at 132 Poirot Street, and asked "Seeker, why do you suppose it is that people read detective stories?" Seeker looked at me with those piercing, brilliant eyes and leaned back into his chair, inhaling thoughtfully on his pipe. It was a moment before he replied: "I would have thought you would know already, my dear Foyle, given your eagerness to chronicle those curious little mysteries that come our way from time to time."