amewiththeothergarmentshadnotheheardtherushofstepsbelow,andonlyjusthadtimetoclosethewindowwhenthepoliceappeared.”
“Itcertainlysoundsfeasible.”
“Well,wewilltakeitasaworkinghypothesisforwantofabetter.Boone,asIhavetoldyou,wasarrestedandtakentothestation,butitcouldnotbeshownthattherehadeverbeforebeenanythingagainsthim.Hehadforyearsbeenknownasaprofessionalbeggar,buthislifeappearedtohavebeenaveryquietandinnocentone.Therethematterstandsatpresent,andthequestionswhichhavetobesolved—whatNevilleSt.Clairwasdoingintheopiumden,whathappenedtohimwhenthere,whereishenow,andwhatHughBoonehadtodowithhisdisappearance—areallasfarfromasolutionasever.IconfessthatIcannotrecallanycasewithinmyexperiencewhichlookedatthefirstglancesosimpleandyetwhichpresentedsuchdifficulties.”
WhileSherlockHolmeshadbeendetailingthissingularseriesofevents,wehadbeenwhirlingthroughtheoutskirtsofthegreattownuntilthelaststragglinghouseshadbeenleftbehind,andwerattledalongwithacountryhedgeuponeithersideofus.Justashefinished,however,wedrovethroughtwoscatteredvillages,whereafewlightsstillglimmeredinthewindows.
“WeareontheoutskirtsofLee,”saidmycompanion.“WehavetouchedonthreeEnglishcountiesinourshortdrive,startinginMiddlesex,passingoveranangleofSurrey,andendinginKent.Seethatlightamongthetrees?ThatisTheCedars,andbesidethatlampsitsawomanwhoseanxiousearshavealready,Ihavelittledoubt,caughttheclinkofourhorse’sfeet.”
“ButwhyareyounotconductingthecasefromBakerStreet?”Iasked.
“Becausetherearemanyinquirieswhichmustbemadeouthere.Mrs.St.Clairhasmostkindlyputtworoomsatmydisposal,andyoumayrestassuredthatshewillhavenothingbutawelcomeformyfriendandcolleague.Ihatetomeether,Watson,whenIhavenonewsofherhusband.Hereweare.Whoa,there,whoa!”
Wehadpulledupinfrontofalargevillawhichstoodwithinitsowngrounds.Astable-boyhadrunouttothehorse’shead,andspringingdown,IfollowedHolmesupthesmall,windinggravel-drivewhichledtothehouse.Asweapproached,thedoorflewopen,andalittleblondewomanstoodintheopening,cladinsomesortoflightmousselinedesoie,withatouchoffluffypinkchiffonatherneckandwrists.Shestoodwithherfigureoutlinedagainstthefloodoflight,onehanduponthedoor,onehalf-raisedinhereagerness,herbodyslightlybent,herheadandfaceprotruded,witheagereyesandpartedlips,astandingquestion.
“Well?”shecried,“well?”Andthen,seeingthatthereweretwoofus,shegaveacryofhopewhichsankintoagroanasshesawthatmycompanionshookhisheadandshruggedhisshoulders.
“Nogoodnews?”
“None.”
“Nobad?”
“No.”
“ThankGodforthat.Butcomein.Youmustbeweary,foryouhavehadalongday.”
“Thisismyfriend,Dr.Watson.Hehasbeenofmostvitalusetomeinseveralofmycases,andaluckychancehasmadeitpossibleformetobringhimoutandassociatehimwiththisinvestigation.”
“Iamdelightedtoseeyou,”saidshe,pressingmyhandwarmly.“Youwill,Iamsure,forgiveanythingthatmaybewantinginourarrangements,whenyouconsidertheblowwhichhascomesosuddenlyuponus.”
“Mydearmadam,”saidI,“Iamanoldcampaigner,andifIwerenotIcanverywellseethatnoapologyisneeded.IfIcanbeofanyassistance,eithertoyouortomyfriendhere,Ishallbeindeedhappy.”
“Now,Mr.SherlockHolmes,”saidtheladyasweenteredawell-litdining-room,uponthetableofwhichacoldsupperhadbeenlaidout,“Ishouldverymuchliketoaskyouoneortwoplainquestions,towhichIbegthatyouwillgiveaplainanswer.”
“Certainly,madam.”
“Donottroubleaboutmyfeelings.Iamnothysterical,norgiventofainting.Isimplywishtohearyourreal,realopinion.”
“Uponwhatpoint?”
“Inyourheartofhearts,doyouthinkthatNevilleisalive?”
SherlockHolmesseemedtobeembarrassedbythequestion.“Frankly,now!”sherepeated,standingupontherugandlookingkeenlydownathimasheleanedbackinabasket-chair.
“Frankly,then,madam,Idonot.”
“Youthinkthatheisdead?”
“Ido.”
“Murdered?”
“Idon’tsaythat.Perhaps.”
“Andonwhatdaydidhemeethisdeath?”
“OnMonday.”
“Thenperhaps,Mr.Holmes,youwillbegoodenoughtoexplainhowitisthatIhavereceivedaletterfromhimto-day.”
SherlockHolmessprangoutofhischairasifhehadbeengalvanised.
“What!”heroared.
“Yes,to-day.”Shestoodsmiling,holdingupalittleslipofpaperintheair.
“MayIseeit?”
“Certainly.”
Hesnatcheditfromherinhiseage