LITMIR.BIZ

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He was a solicitor, and he moved out yesterday.’

      “’Where could I find him?’

      “’Oh, at his new offices. He told me the address. Yes, 17 King Edward Street, near St. Paul’s.’

      “I started off, Mr. Holmes, but when I got to that address, no one there had ever heard of either Mr. William Morris, or Mr. Duncan Ross.”

      “And what did you do then?” asked Holmes.

      “I went home. But my assistant could not help me in any way. But I did not wish to lose such a place without a struggle, so, as I had heard that you were good enough to give advice to poor people, I came right away to you.”

      “And you did very wisely,” said Holmes. “Your case is a remarkable one, and I shall be happy to look into it. But as far as you are personally concerned, I do not see that you have any grievance against this extraordinary league. On the contrary, you are, as I understand, richer by some thirty pounds, to say nothing of the minute knowledge which you have gained on every subject which comes under the letter A. You have lost nothing by them.”

      “No, sir. But I want to find out about them, and who they are, and what their object was in playing this prank-if it was a prank-upon me. It was a pretty expensive joke for them, for it cost them two and thirty pounds.”

      “We shall try to clear up these points for you. And, first, one or two questions, Mr. Wilson. This assistant of yours who first called your attention to the advertisement-how long had he been with you?”

      “About a month then.”

      “How did he come?”

      “In answer to an advertisement.”

      “Was he the only applicant?”

      “No, I had a dozen.”

      “Why did you pick him?”

      “Because he was handy, and would come cheap.”

      “At half wages, in fact.”

      “Yes.”

      “What is he like, this Vincent Spaulding?”

      “Small, stout-built, very quick, no hair on his face, though he’s about thirty. He has a white splash of acid upon his forehead.”

      Holmes sat up in his chair in considerable excitement.

      “I thought as much,” said he. “Have you ever observed that his ears are pierced for earrings?”

      “Yes, sir. He told me that a gypsy had done it for him when he was a lad.”

      “Hum!” said Holmes, sinking back in deep thought. “He is still with you?”

      “Oh, yes, sir; I have only just left him.”

      “And has your business been attended to in your absence?”

      “Nothing to complain of, sir.”

      “So, Mr. Wilson. I shall be happy to give you an opinion upon the subject in the course of a day or two. Today is Saturday, and I hope that by Monday we may come to a conclusion.”

      “Well, Watson,” said Holmes, when our visitor had left us, “what do you think?”

      “Nothing,” I answered, frankly. “It is a most mysterious business.”

      “As a rule,” said Holmes, “the more bizarre a thing is the less mysterious it proves to be. But I must be prompt over this matter.”

      “What are you going to do then?” I asked.

      “To smoke,” he answered. “It is quite a three pipe problem, and I beg that you won’t speak to me for fifty minutes.”

      He curled himself up in his chair, with his thin knees drawn up to his hawk-like nose, and there he sat with his eyes closed. I had come to the conclusion that he had dropped asleep, and indeed was nodding myself, when he suddenly sprang out of his chair with the gesture of a man who has made up his mind, and put his pipe down upon the mantelpiece.

      “Sarasate[1] plays at the St. James’s Hall this afternoon,” he remarked. “What do you think, Watson? Could your patients spare you for a few hours?”

      “I have nothing to do today.”

      “Then, put on your hat, and come. I am going through the City first, and we can have some lunch on the way.”

      Coburg Square was a poky, little place with four lines of dingy two-storied brick houses, a lawn of weedy grass, and a few clumps of faded laurel bushes. A brown board with “Jabez Wilson” in white letters, upon a corner house, announced the place where our red-headed client carried on his business. Sherlock Holmes stopped in front of it with his head on one side, and looked it all over. Then he walked slowly up the street, and then down again to the corner, still looking keenly at the houses. Finally he returned to the pawnbroker’s, and, having thumped vigorously upon the pavement with his stick two or three times, he went up to the door and knocked. It was instantly opened by a bright-looking, clean-shaven young fellow, who asked him to step in.

      “Thank you,” said Holmes, “I only wished to ask you how you would go from here to the Strand.”

      “Third right, fourth left,” answered the assistant promptly, closing the door.

      “Smart fellow,” observed Holmes, as we walked away. “He is, in my judgment, the fourth smartest man in London. I have known something of him before.”

      “Evidently,” said I, “Mr. Wilson’s assistant played his role in this mystery of the Red-headed League. I am sure that you inquired your way merely in order that you might see him.”

      “Not him.”

      “What then?”

      “The knees of his trousers.”

      “And what did you see?”

      “What I expected to see.”

      “Why did you beat the pavement?”

      “My dear Doctor, this is a time for observation, not for talk. We are spies in an enemy’s country. Let us now explore the area.”

      The road in which we found ourselves as we turned round the corner, was one of the main arteries which convey the traffic of the City to the north and west. There was the line of beautiful shops and stately business premises.

      “Let me see,” said Holmes, standing at the corner, and glancing along the line, “I want to remember the order of the houses here. It is a hobby of mine to have an exact knowledge of London. There is the tobacconist, the little newspaper shop, the Coburg branch of the City and Suburban Bank, the Vegetarian Restaurant. That carries us right on to the other block. And now, Doctor, we’ve done our work. A sandwich, and a cup of coffee, and then off to violin-land, where all is sweetness, and delicacy, and harmony, and there are no red-headed clients to vex us.”

      My friend was an enthusiastic musician, not only a very capable performer, but a composer.

      “You want to go home, no doubt, Doctor,” he remarked, as the concert was over.

      “Yes.”

      “And I have some business to do which will take some hours. This business at Coburg Square is serious.”

      “Why serious?”

      “A considerable crime is in contemplation. I have every reason to believe that we shall be in time to stop it. And I shall want your help tonight.”

      “At what time?”

      “At ten.”

      “I shall be at Baker Street at ten.”

      “Very well. And, I say, Doctor! There may be some little danger, so kindly put your revolver in your pocket.”

      He waved his hand, turned on his heel, and disappeared in an instant among the crowd.

      As I drove home to my house I thought over it all, from the extraordinary story of the red-headed

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