beforethis.Youhavenofurtherevidence,Isuppose,thanthatwhichyouhaveplacedbeforeus—nosuggestivedetailwhichmighthelpus?”
“Thereisonething,”saidJohnOpenshaw.Herummagedinhiscoatpocket,and,drawingoutapieceofdiscoloured,blue-tintedpaper,helaiditoutuponthetable.“Ihavesomeremembrance,”saidhe,“thatonthedaywhenmyuncleburnedthepapersIobservedthatthesmall,unburnedmarginswhichlayamidtheasheswereofthisparticularcolour.Ifoundthissinglesheetuponthefloorofhisroom,andIaminclinedtothinkthatitmaybeoneofthepaperswhichhas,perhaps,flutteredoutfromamongtheothers,andinthatwayhasescapeddestruction.Beyondthementionofpips,Idonotseethatithelpsusmuch.Ithinkmyselfthatitisapagefromsomeprivatediary.Thewritingisundoubtedlymyuncle’s.”
Holmesmovedthelamp,andwebothbentoverthesheetofpaper,whichshowedbyitsraggededgethatithadindeedbeentornfromabook.Itwasheaded,“March,1869,”andbeneathwerethefollowingenigmaticalnotices:
“4th.Hudsoncame.Sameoldplatform.
“7th.SetthepipsonMcCauley,Paramore,andJohnSwainofSt.Augustine.
“9th.McCauleycleared.
“10th.JohnSwaincleared.
“12th.VisitedParamore.Allwell.”
“Thankyou!”saidHolmes,foldingupthepaperandreturningittoourvisitor.“Andnowyoumustonnoaccountloseanotherinstant.Wecannotsparetimeeventodiscusswhatyouhavetoldme.Youmustgethomeinstantlyandact.”
“WhatshallIdo?”
“Thereisbutonethingtodo.Itmustbedoneatonce.Youmustputthispieceofpaperwhichyouhaveshownusintothebrassboxwhichyouhavedescribed.Youmustalsoputinanotetosaythatalltheotherpaperswereburnedbyyouruncle,andthatthisistheonlyonewhichremains.Youmustassertthatinsuchwordsaswillcarryconvictionwiththem.Havingdonethis,youmustatonceputtheboxoutuponthesundial,asdirected.Doyouunderstand?”
“Entirely.”
“Donotthinkofrevenge,oranythingofthesort,atpresent.Ithinkthatwemaygainthatbymeansofthelawbutwehaveourwebtoweave,whiletheirsisalreadywoven.Thefirstconsiderationistoremovethepressingdangerwhichthreatensyou.Thesecondistoclearupthemysteryandtopunishtheguiltyparties.”
“Ithankyou,”saidtheyoungman,risingandpullingonhisovercoat.“Youhavegivenmefreshlifeandhope.Ishallcertainlydoasyouadvise.”
“Donotloseaninstant.And,aboveall,takecareofyourselfinthemeanwhile,forIdonotthinkthattherecanbeadoubtthatyouarethreatenedbyaveryrealandimminentdanger.Howdoyougoback?”
“BytrainfromWaterloo.”
“Itisnotyetnine.Thestreetswillbecrowded,soItrustthatyoumaybeinsafety.Andyetyoucannotguardyourselftooclosely.”
“Iamarmed.”
“Thatiswell.To-morrowIshallsettoworkuponyourcase.”
“IshallseeyouatHorsham,then?”
“No,yoursecretliesinLondon.ItistherethatIshallseekit.”
“ThenIshallcalluponyouinaday,orintwodays,withnewsastotheboxandthepapers.Ishalltakeyouradviceineveryparticular.”Heshookhandswithusandtookhisleave.Outsidethewindstillscreamedandtherainsplashedandpatteredagainstthewindows.Thisstrange,wildstoryseemedtohavecometousfromamidthemadelements—blowninuponuslikeasheetofsea-weedinagale—andnowtohavebeenreabsorbedbythemoncemore.
SherlockHolmessatforsometimeinsilence,withhisheadsunkforwardandhiseyesbentupontheredglowofthefire.Thenhelithispipe,andleaningbackinhischairhewatchedthebluesmoke-ringsastheychasedeachotheruptotheceiling.
“Ithink,Watson,”heremarkedatlast,“thatofallourcaseswehavehadnonemorefantasticthanthis.”
“Save,perhaps,theSignofFour.”
“Well,yes.Save,perh