onevidenttomethathewasnowpreparingforanall-nightsitting.Hetookoffhiscoatandwaistcoat,putonalargebluedressing-gown,andthenwanderedabouttheroomcollectingpillowsfromhisbedandcushionsfromthesofaandarmchairs.WiththeseheconstructedasortofEasterndivan,uponwhichheperchedhimselfcross-legged,withanounceofshagtobaccoandaboxofmatcheslaidoutinfrontofhim.InthedimlightofthelampIsawhimsittingthere,anoldbriarpipebetweenhislips,hiseyesfixedvacantlyuponthecorneroftheceiling,thebluesmokecurlingupfromhim,silent,motionless,withthelightshininguponhisstrong-setaquilinefeatures.SohesatasIdroppedofftosleep,andsohesatwhenasuddenejaculationcausedmetowakeup,andIfoundthesummersunshiningintotheapartment.Thepipewasstillbetweenhislips,thesmokestillcurledupward,andtheroomwasfullofadensetobaccohaze,butnothingremainedoftheheapofshagwhichIhadseenuponthepreviousnight.
“Awake,Watson?”heasked.
“Yes.”
“Gameforamorningdrive?”
“Certainly.”
“Thendress.Nooneisstirringyet,butIknowwherethestable-boysleeps,andweshallsoonhavethetrapout.”Hechuckledtohimselfashespoke,hiseyestwinkled,andheseemedadifferentmantothesombrethinkerofthepreviousnight.
AsIdressedIglancedatmywatch.Itwasnowonderthatnoonewasstirring.Itwastwenty-fiveminutespastfour.IhadhardlyfinishedwhenHolmesreturnedwiththenewsthattheboywasputtinginthehorse.
“Iwanttotestalittletheoryofmine,”saidhe,pullingonhisboots.“Ithink,Watson,thatyouarenowstandinginthepresenceofoneofthemostabsolutefoolsinEurope.IdeservetobekickedfromheretoCharingCross.ButIthinkIhavethekeyoftheaffairnow.”
“Andwhereisit?”Iasked,smiling.
“Inthebathroom,”heanswered.“Oh,yes,Iamnotjoking,”hecontinued,seeingmylookofincredulity.“Ihavejustbeenthere,andIhavetakenitout,andIhavegotitinthisGladstonebag.Comeon,myboy,andweshallseewhetheritwillnotfitthelock.”
Wemadeourwaydownstairsasquietlyaspossible,andoutintothebrightmorningsunshine.Intheroadstoodourhorseandtrap,withthehalf-cladstable-boywaitingatthehead.Webothsprangin,andawaywedasheddowntheLondonRoad.Afewcountrycartswerestirring,bearinginvegetablestothemetropolis,butthelinesofvillasoneithersidewereassilentandlifelessassomecityinadream.
“Ithasbeeninsomepointsasingularcase,”saidHolmes,flickingthehorseonintoagallop.“IconfessthatIhavebeenasblindasamole,butitisbettertolearnwisdomlatethannevertolearnitatall.”
IntowntheearliestriserswerejustbeginningtolooksleepilyfromtheirwindowsaswedrovethroughthestreetsoftheSurreyside.PassingdowntheWaterlooBridgeRoadwecrossedovertheriver,anddashingupWellingtonStreetwheeledsharplytotherightandfoundourselvesinBowStreet.SherlockHolmeswaswellknowntotheforce,andthetwoconstablesatthedoorsalutedhim.Oneofthemheldthehorse’sheadwhiletheotherledusin.
“Whoisonduty?”askedHolmes.
“InspectorBradstreet,sir.”
“Ah,Bradstreet,howareyou?”Atall,stoutofficialhadcomedownthestone-flaggedpassage,inapeakedcapandfroggedjacket.“Iwishtohaveaquietwordwithyou,Bradstreet.”
“Certainly,Mr.Holmes.Stepintomyroomhere.”
Itwasasmall,office-likeroom,withahugeledgeruponthetable,andatelephoneprojectingfromthewall.Theinspectorsatdownathisdesk.
“WhatcanIdoforyou,Mr.Holmes?”
“Icalledaboutthatbeggarman,Boone—theonewhowaschargedwithbeingconcernedinthedisappearanceofMr.NevilleSt.Clair,ofLee.”
“Yes.Hewasbroughtupandremandedforfurtherinquiries.”
“SoIheard.Youhavehimhere?”
“Inthecells.”
“Ishequiet?”
“Oh,hegivesnotrouble.Butheisadirtyscoundrel.”
“Dirty?”
“Yes,itisallwecandotomakehimwashhishands,andhisfaceisasblackasatinker’s.Well,whenoncehiscasehasbeensettled,hewillhavearegularprisonbathandIthink,ifyousawhim,youwouldagreewithmethatheneededit.”
“Ishouldliketoseehimverymuch.”
“Wouldyou?Thatiseasilydone.Comethisway.Youcanleaveyourbag.”
“No,IthinkthatI’lltakeit.”
“Verygood.Comethisway,ifyouplease.”Heledusdownapassage,openedabarreddoor,passeddownawindingstair,andbroughtustoawhitewashedcorridorwithalineofdoorsoneachside.
“Thethirdontherightishis,”saidtheinspector.“Hereitis!”Hequietlyshotbackapanelintheupperpartofthedoorandglancedthrough.
“Heisasleep,”saidhe.“Youcanseehimverywell.”
Webothputoureyestothegr