toodeep.Itmusthavebeenthismorning,orthemarkwouldnotremainclearuponthefinger.Allthisisamusing,thoughratherelementary,butImustgobacktobusiness,Watson.WouldyoumindreadingmetheadvertiseddescriptionofMr.HosmerAngel?”
Iheldthelittleprintedsliptothelight.“Missing,”itsaid,“onthemorningofthefourteenth,agentlemannamedHosmerAngel.Aboutfiveft.sevenin.inheightstronglybuilt,sallowcomplexion,blackhair,alittlebaldinthecentre,bushy,blackside-whiskersandmoustachetintedglasses,slightinfirmityofspeech.Wasdressed,whenlastseen,inblackfrock-coatfacedwithsilk,blackwaistcoat,goldAlbertchain,andgreyHarristweedtrousers,withbrowngaitersoverelastic-sidedboots.KnowntohavebeenemployedinanofficeinLeadenhallStreet.Anybodybringing,”&c,&c.
“Thatwilldo,”saidHolmes.“Astotheletters,”hecontinued,glancingoverthem,“theyareverycommonplace.AbsolutelynoclueinthemtoMr.Angel,savethathequotesBalzaconce.Thereisoneremarkablepoint,however,whichwillnodoubtstrikeyou.”
“Theyaretypewritten,”Iremarked.
“Notonlythat,butthesignatureistypewritten.Lookattheneatlittle‘HosmerAngel’atthebottom.Thereisadate,yousee,butnosuperscriptionexceptLeadenhallStreet,whichisrathervague.Thepointaboutthesignatureisverysuggestive—infact,wemaycallitconclusive.”
“Ofwhat?”
“Mydearfellow,isitpossibleyoudonotseehowstronglyitbearsuponthecase?”
“IcannotsaythatIdounlessitwerethathewishedtobeabletodenyhissignatureifanactionforbreachofpromisewereinstituted.”
“No,thatwasnotthepoint.However,Ishallwritetwoletters,whichshouldsettlethematter.OneistoafirmintheCity,theotheristotheyounglady’sstepfather,Mr.Windibank,askinghimwhetherhecouldmeetushereatsixo’clockto-morrowevening.Itisjustaswellthatweshoulddobusinesswiththemalerelatives.Andnow,Doctor,wecandonothinguntiltheanswerstothoseletterscome,sowemayputourlittleproblemupontheshelffortheinterim.”
Ihadhadsomanyreasonstobelieveinmyfriend’ssubtlepowersofreasoningandextraordinaryenergyinactionthatIfeltthathemusthavesomesolidgroundsfortheassuredandeasydemeanourwithwhichhetreatedthesingularmysterywhichhehadbeencalledupontofathom.OnceonlyhadIknownhimtofail,inthecaseoftheKingofBohemiaandoftheIreneAdlerphotographbutwhenIlookedbacktotheweirdbusinessoftheSignofFour,andtheextraordinarycircumstancesconnectedwiththeStudyinScarlet,Ifeltthatitwouldbeastrangetangleindeedwhichhecouldnotunravel.
Ilefthimthen,stillpuffingathisblackclaypipe,withtheconvictionthatwhenIcameagainonthenexteveningIwouldfindthatheheldinhishandsalltheclueswhichwouldleaduptotheidentityofthedisappearingbridegroomofMissMarySutherland.
Aprofessionalcaseofgreatgravitywasengagingmyownattentionatthetime,andthewholeofnextdayIwasbusyatthebedsideofthesufferer.Itwasnotuntilcloseuponsixo’clockthatIfoundmyselffreeandwasabletospringintoahansomanddrivetoBakerStreet,halfafraidthatImightbetoolatetoassistatthedénouementofthelittlemystery.IfoundSherlockHolmesalone,however,halfasleep,withhislong,thinformcurledupintherecessesofhisarmchair.Aformidablearrayofbottlesandtest-tubes,withthepungentcleanlysmellofhydrochloricacid,toldmethathehadspenthisdayinthechemicalworkwhichwassodeartohim.
“Well,haveyousolvedit?”IaskedasIentered.
“Yes.Itwasthebi