n,andthathewasnottobecoopedup,likeasheepinapen,bymanordevil.Whenthesehotfitswereover,however,hewouldrushtumultuouslyinatthedoorandlockandbaritbehindhim,likeamanwhocanbrazenitoutnolongeragainsttheterrorwhichliesattherootsofhissoul.AtsuchtimesIhaveseenhisface,evenonacoldday,glistenwithmoisture,asthoughitwerenewraisedfromabasin.
“Well,tocometoanendofthematter,Mr.Holmes,andnottoabuseyourpatience,therecameanightwhenhemadeoneofthosedrunkensalliesfromwhichhenevercameback.Wefoundhim,whenwewenttosearchforhim,facedownwardinalittlegreen-scummedpool,whichlayatthefootofthegarden.Therewasnosignofanyviolence,andthewaterwasbuttwofeetdeep,sothatthejury,havingregardtohisknowneccentricity,broughtinaverdictof‘suicide.’ButI,whoknewhowhewincedfromtheverythoughtofdeath,hadmuchadotopersuademyselfthathehadgoneoutofhiswaytomeetit.Thematterpassed,however,andmyfatherenteredintopossessionoftheestate,andofsome￡14,000,whichlaytohiscreditatthebank.”
“Onemoment,”Holmesinterposed,“yourstatementis,Iforesee,oneofthemostremarkabletowhichIhaveeverlistened.Letmehavethedateofthereceptionbyyouruncleoftheletter,andthedateofhissupposedsuicide.”
“TheletterarrivedonMarch10,1883.Hisdeathwassevenweekslater,uponthenightofMay2nd.”
“Thankyou.Prayproceed.”
“WhenmyfathertookovertheHorshamproperty,he,atmyrequest,madeacarefulexaminationoftheattic,whichhadbeenalwayslockedup.Wefoundthebrassboxthere,althoughitscontentshadbeendestroyed.Ontheinsideofthecoverwasapaperlabel,withtheinitialsofK.K.K.repeateduponit,and‘Letters,memoranda,receipts,andaregister’writtenbeneath.These,wepresume,indicatedthenatureofthepaperswhichhadbeendestroyedbyColonelOpenshaw.Fortherest,therewasnothingofmuchimportanceintheatticsaveagreatmanyscatteredpapersandnote-booksbearinguponmyuncle’slifeinAmerica.Someofthemwereofthewartimeandshowedthathehaddonehisdutywellandhadbornethereputeofabravesoldier.OtherswereofadateduringthereconstructionoftheSouthernstates,andweremostlyconcernedwithpolitics,forhehadevidentlytakenastrongpartinopposingthecarpet-bagpoliticianswhohadbeensentdownfromtheNorth.
“Well,itwasthebeginningof’84whenmyfathercametoliveatHorsham,andallwentaswellaspossiblewithusuntiltheJanuaryof’85.OnthefourthdayafterthenewyearIheardmyfathergiveasharpcryofsurpriseaswesattogetheratthebreakfast-table.Therehewas,sittingwithanewlyopenedenvelopeinonehandandfivedriedorangepipsintheoutstretchedpalmoftheotherone.Hehadalwayslaughedatwhathecalledmycock-and-bullstoryaboutthecolonel,buthelookedveryscaredandpuzzlednowthatthesamethinghadcomeuponhimself.
“‘Why,whatonearthdoesthismean,John?’hestammered.
“Myhearthadturnedtolead.‘ItisK.K.K.,’saidI.
“Helookedinsidetheenvelope.‘Soitis,’hecried.‘Herearetheveryletters.Butwhatisthiswrittenabovethem?’
“‘Putthepapersonthesundial,’Iread,peepingoverhisshoulder.
“‘Whatpapers?Whatsundial?’heasked.
“‘Thesundialinthegarden.Thereisnoother,’saidI‘butthepapersmustbethosethataredestroyed.’
“‘Pooh!’saidhe,grippinghardathiscourage.‘Weareinacivilisedlandhere,andwecan’thavetomfooleryofthiskind.Wheredoesthethingcomefrom?’
“‘FromDundee,’Ianswered,glancingatthepostmark.
“‘Somepreposterouspracticaljoke,’saidhe.‘WhathaveItodowithsundialsandpapers?Ishalltakenonoticeofsuchnonsense.’
“‘Ishouldcertainlyspeaktothepolice,’Isaid.
“‘Andbelaugheda