LITMIR.BIZ

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you can be so sure.”

      “His voice, sir. I knew his voice, which is kind o’ thick and foggy. He tapped at the winder,—about three it would be. ‘Show a leg, matey,’ says he: ‘time to turn out guard.’ My old man woke up Jim,—that’s my eldest,—and away they went, without so much as a word to me. I could hear the wooden leg clackin’ on the stones.”

      “And was this wooden-legged man alone?”

      “Couldn’t say, I am sure, sir. I didn’t hear no one else.”

      “I am sorry, Mrs. Smith, for I wanted a steam launch, and I have heard good reports of the—Let me see, what is her name?”

      “The Aurora, sir.”

      “Ah! She’s not that old green launch with a yellow line, very broad in the beam?”

      “No, indeed. She’s as trim a little thing as any on the river. She’s been fresh painted, black with two red streaks.”

      “Thanks. I hope that you will hear soon from Mr. Smith. I am going down the river; and if I should see anything of the Aurora I shall let him know that you are uneasy. A black funnel, you say?”

      “No, sir. Black with a white band.”

      “Ah, of course. It was the sides which were black. Good morning, Mrs. Smith.—There is a boatman here with a wherry, Watson. We shall take it and cross the river.

      “The main thing with people of that sort,” said Holmes, as we sat in the sheets of the wherry, “is never to let them think that their information can be of the slightest importance to you. If you do, they will instantly shut up like an oyster. If you listen to them under protest, as it were, you are very likely to get what you want.”

      “Our course now seems pretty clear,” said I.

      “What would you do, then?”

      “I would engage a launch and go down the river on the track of the Aurora .”

      “My dear fellow, it would be a colossal task. She may have touched at any wharf on either side of the stream between here and Greenwich. Below the bridge there is a perfect labyrinth of landing-places for miles. It would take you days and days to exhaust them, if you set about it alone.”

      “Employ the police, then.”

      “No. I shall probably call Athelney Jones in at the last moment. He is not a bad fellow, and I should not like to do anything which would injure him professionally. But I have a fancy for working it out myself, now that we have gone so far.”

      “Could we advertise, then, asking for information from wharfingers?”

      “Worse and worse! Our men would know that the chase was hot at their heels, and they would be off out of the country. As it is, they are likely enough to leave, but as long as they think they are perfectly safe they will be in no hurry. Jones’s energy will be of use to us there, for his view of the case is sure to push itself into the daily press, and the runaways will think that every one is off on the wrong scent.”

      “What are we to do, then?” I asked, as we landed near Millbank Penitentiary.

      “Take this hansom, drive home, have some breakfast, and get an hour’s sleep. It is quite on the cards that we may be afoot tonight again. Stop at a telegraph-office, cabby! We will keep Toby, for he may be of use to us yet.”

      We pulled up at the Great Peter Street post-office, and Holmes despatched his wire. “Whom do you think that is to?” he asked, as we resumed our journey.

      “I am sure I don’t know.”

      “You remember the Baker Street division of the detective police force whom I employed in the Jefferson Hope case?”

      “Well,” said I, laughing.

      “This is just the case where they might be invaluable. If they fail, I have other resources; but I shall try them first. That wire was to my dirty little lieutenant, Wiggins, and I expect that he and his gang will be with us before we have finished our breakfast.”

      It was between eight and nine o’clock now, and I was conscious of a strong reaction after the successive excitements of the night. I was limp and weary, befogged in mind and fatigued in body. I had not the professional enthusiasm which carried my companion on, nor could I look at the matter as a mere abstract intellectual problem. As far as the death of Bartholomew Sholto went, I had heard little good of him, and could feel no intense antipathy to his murderers. The treasure, however, was a different matter. That, or part of it, belonged rightfully to Miss Morstan. While there was a chance of recovering it I was ready to devote my life to the one object. True, if I found it it would probably put her forever beyond my reach. Yet it would be a petty and selfish love which would be influenced by such a thought as that. If Holmes could work to find the criminals, I had a tenfold stronger reason to urge me on to find the treasure.

      A bath at Baker Street and a complete change freshened me up wonderfully. When I came down to our room I found the breakfast laid and Holmes pouring out the coffee.

      “Here it is,” said he, laughing, and pointing to an open newspaper. “The energetic Jones and the ubiquitous reporter have fixed it up between them. But you have had enough of the case. Better have your ham and eggs first.”

      I took the paper from him and read the short notice, which was headed “Mysterious Business at Upper Norwood.”

      “About twelve o’clock last night,” said The Standard, “Mr. Bartholomew Sholto, of Pondicherry Lodge, Upper Norwood, was found dead in his room under circumstances which point to foul play. As far as we can learn, no actual traces of violence were found upon Mr. Sholto’s person, but a valuable collection of Indian gems which the deceased gentleman had inherited from his father has been carried off. The discovery was first made by Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson, who had called at the house with Mr. Thaddeus Sholto, brother of the deceased. By a singular piece of good fortune, Mr. Athelney Jones, the well-known member of the detective police force, happened to be at the Norwood Police Station, and was on the ground within half an hour of the first alarm. His trained and experienced faculties were at once directed towards the detection of the criminals, with the gratifying result that the brother, Thaddeus Sholto, has already been arrested, together with the housekeeper, Mrs. Bernstone, an Indian butler named Lal Rao, and a porter, or gatekeeper, named McMurdo. It is quite certain that the thief or thieves were well acquainted with the house, for Mr. Jones’s well-known technical knowledge and his powers of minute observation have enabled him to prove conclusively that the miscreants could not have entered by the door or by the window, but must have made their way across the roof of the building, and so through a trap- door into a room which communicated with that in which the body was found. This fact, which has been very clearly made out, proves conclusively that it was no mere haphazard burglary. The prompt and energetic action of the officers of the law shows the great advantage of the presence on such occasions of a single vigorous and masterful mind. We cannot but think that it supplies an argument to those who would wish to see our detectives more decentralised, and so brought into closer and more effective touch with the cases which it is their duty to investigate.”

      “Isn’t it gorgeous!” said Holmes, grinning over his coffee-cup. “What do you think of it?”

      I think that we have had a close shave ourselves of being arrested for the crime.”

      “So do I. I wouldn’t answer for our safety now, if he should happen to have another of his attacks of energy.”

      At this moment there was a loud ring at the bell, and I could hear Mrs. Hudson, our landlady, raising her voice in a wail of expostulation and dismay.

      “By heaven, Holmes,” I said, half rising, “I believe that they are really after us.”

      “No, it’s not quite so bad as that. It is the unofficial force, — the Baker Street irregulars.”

      As he spoke, there came a swift pattering of naked feet upon the stairs, a clatter of high voices,

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