THE COMPLETE SHERLOCK HOLMES

                         THE RETURN OF SHERLOCK HOLMES


                  THE ADVENTURE OF THE MISSING THREE-QUARTER

WE WERE fairly accustomed to receive weird telegrams at Baker Street, but I
have a particular recollection of one which reached us on a gloomy February
morning, some seven or eight years ago, and gave Mr. Sherlock Holmes a puzzled
quarter of an hour.  It was addressed to him, and ran thus:

               Please await me.  Terrible misfortune.  Right wing
          three-quarter missing, indispensable to-morrow.
                                                                   OVERTON.

     "Strand postmark, and dispatched ten thirty-six," said Holmes, reading it
over and over.  "Mr. Overton was evidently considerably excited when he sent
it, and somewhat incoherent in consequence.  Well, well, he will be here, I
daresay, by the time I have looked through the Times, and then we shall know
all about it.  Even the most insignificant problem would be welcome in these
stagnant days."
     Things had indeed been very slow with us, and I had learned to dread such
periods of inaction, for I knew by experience that my companion's brain was so
abnormally active that it was dangerous to leave it without material upon
which to work.  For years I had gradually weaned him from that drug mania
which had threatened once to check his remarkable career.  Now I knew that
under ordinary conditions he no longer craved for this artificial stimulus,
but I was well aware that the fiend was not dead but sleeping, and I have
known that the sleep was a light one and the waking near when in periods of
idleness I have seen the drawn look upon Holmes's ascetic face, and the
brooding of his deep-set and inscrutable eyes.  Therefore I blessed this Mr.
Overton, whoever he might be, since he had come with his enigmatic message to
break that dangerous calm which brought more peril to my friend than all the
storms of his tempestuous life.
     As we had expected, the telegram was soon followed by its sender, and the
card of Mr. Cyril Overton, Trinity College, Cambridge, announced the arrival
of an enormous young man, sixteen stone of solid bone and muscle, who spanned
the doorway with his broad shoulders, and looked from one of us to the other
with a comely face which was haggard with anxiety.
     "Mr. Sherlock Holmes?"
     My companion bowed.
     "I've been down to Scotland Yard, Mr. Holmes.  I saw Inspector Stanley
Hopkins.  He advised me to come to you.  He said the case, so far as he could
see, was more in your line than in that of the regular police."
     "Pray sit down and tell me what is the matter."
     "It's awful, Mr. Holmes--simply awful!  I wonder my hair isn't gray.
Godfrey Staunton--you've heard of him, of course?  He's simply the hinge that
the whole team turns on.  I'd rather spare two from the pack, and have Godfrey
for my three-quarter line.  Whether it's passing, or tackling, or dribbling,
there's no one to touch him, and then, he's got the head, and can hold us all
together.  What am I to do?  That's what I ask you, Mr. Holmes.  There's
Moorhouse, first reserve, but he is trained as a half, and he always edges
right in on to the scrum instead of keeping out on the touchline.  He's a fine
place-kick, it's true, but then he has no judgment, and he can't sprint for
nuts.  Why, Morton or Johnson, the Oxford fliers, could romp round him.
Stevenson is fast enough, but he couldn't drop from the twenty-five line, and
a three-quarter who can't either punt or drop isn't worth a place for pace
alone.  No, Mr. Holmes, we are done unless you can help me to find Godfrey
Staunton."
     My friend had listened with amused surprise to this long speech, which
was poured forth with extraordinary vigour and earnestness, every point being
driven home by the slapping of a brawny hand upon the speaker's knee.  When
our visitor was silent Holmes stretched out his hand and took down letter "S"
of his commonplace book.  For once he dug in vain into that mine of varied
information.
     "There is Arthur H. Staunton, the rising young forger," said he, "and
there was Henry Staunton, whom I helped to hang, but Godfrey Staunton is a new
name to me."
     It was our visitor's turn to look surprised.
     "Why, Mr. Holmes, I thought you knew things," said he.  "I suppose, then,
if you have never heard of Godfrey Staunton, you don't know Cyril Overton
either?"
     Holmes shook his head good humouredly.
     "Great Scott!" cried the athlete.  "Why, I was first reserve for England
against Wales, and I've skippered the 'Varsity all this year.  But that's
nothing!  I didn't think there was a soul in England who didn't know Godfrey
Staunton, the crack three-quarter, Cambridge, Blackheath, and five
Internationals.  Good Lord!  Mr. Holmes, where have you lived?"
     Holmes laughed at the young giant's naive astonishment.
     "You live in a different world to me, Mr. Overton--a sweeter and
healthier one.  My ramifications stretch out into many sections of society,
but never, I am happy to say, into amateur sport, which is the best and
soundest thing in England.  However, your unexpected visit this morning shows
me that even in that world of fresh air and fair play, there may be work for
me to do.  So now, my good sir, I beg you to sit down and to tell me, slowly
and quietly, exactly what it is that has occurred, and how you desire that I
should help you."
     Young Overton's face assumed the bothered look of the man who is more
accustomed to using his muscles than his wits, but by degrees, with many
repetitions and obscurities which I may omit from his narrative, he laid his
strange story before us.
     "It's this way, Mr. Holmes.  As I have said, I am the skipper of the
Rugger team of Cambridge 'Varsity, and Godfrey Staunton is my best man.
To-morrow we play Oxford.  Yesterday we all came up, and we settled at
Bentley's private hotel.  At ten o'clock I went round and saw that all the
fellows had gone to roost, for I believe in strict training and plenty of
sleep to keep a team fit.  I had a word or two with Godfrey before he turned
in.  He seemed to me to be pale and bothered.  I asked him what was the
matter.  He said he was all right --just a touch of headache.  I bade him
good-night and left him.  Half an hour later, the porter tells me that a
rough-looking man with a beard called with a note for Godfrey.  He had not
gone to bed, and the note was taken to his room.  Godfrey read it, and fell
back in a chair as if he had been pole-axed.  The porter was so scared that he
was going to fetch me, but Godfrey stopped him, had a drink of water, and
pulled himself together.  Then he went downstairs, said a few words to the man
who was waiting in the hall, and the two of them went off together.  The last
that the porter saw of them, they were almost running down the street in the
direction of the Strand.  This morning Godfrey's room was empty, his bed had
never been slept in, and his things were all just as I had seen them the night
before.  He had gone off at a moment's notice with this stranger, and no word
has come from him since.  I don't believe he will ever come back.  He was a
sportsman, was Godfrey, down to his marrow, and he wouldn't have stopped his
training and let in his skipper if it were not for some cause that was too
strong for him.  No:  I feel as if he were gone for good, and we should never
see him again."
     Sherlock Holmes listened with the deepest attention to this singular
narrative.
     "What did you do?" he asked.
     "I wired to Cambridge to learn if anything had been heard of him there.
I have had an answer.  No one has seen him."
     "Could he have got back to Cambridge?"
     "Yes, there is a late train--quarter-past eleven."
     "But, so far as you can ascertain, he did not take it?"
     "No, he has not been seen."
     "What did you do next?"
     "I wired to Lord Mount-James."
     "Why to Lord Mount-James?"
     "Godfrey is an orphan, and Lord Mount-James is his nearest relative--his
uncle, I believe."
     "Indeed.  This throws new light upon the matter.  Lord Mount-James is one
of the richest men in England."
     "So I've heard Godfrey say."
     "And your friend was closely related?"
     "Yes, he was his heir, and the old boy is nearly eighty--cram full of
gout, too.  They say he could chalk his billiard-cue with his knuckles.  He
never allowed Godfrey a shilling in his life, for he is an absolute miser, but
it will all come to him right enough."
     "Have you heard from Lord Mount-James?"
     "No."
     "What motive could your friend have in going to Lord Mount-James?"
     "Well, something was worrying him the night before, and if it was to do
with money it is possible that he would make for his nearest relative, who had
so much of it, though from all I have heard he would not have much chance of
getting it.  Godfrey was not fond of the old man.  He would not go if he could
help it."
     "Well, we can soon determine that.  If your friend was going to his
relative, Lord Mount-James, you have then to explain the visit of this
rough-looking fellow at so late an hour, and the agitation that was caused by
his coming."
     Cyril Overton pressed his hands to his head.  "I can make nothing of it,
" said he.
     "Well, well, I have a clear day, and I shall be happy to look into the
matter," said Holmes.  "I should strongly recommend you to make your
preparations for your match without reference to this young gentleman.  It
must, as you say, have been an overpowering necessity which tore him away in
such a fashion, and the same necessity is likely to hold him away.  Let us
step round together to the hotel, and see if the porter can throw any fresh
light upon the matter."
     Sherlock Holmes was a past-master in the art of putting a humble witness
at his ease, and very soon, in the privacy of Godfrey Staunton's abandoned
room, he had extracted all that the porter had to tell.  The visitor of the
night before was not a gentleman, neither was he a workingman.  He was simply
what the porter described as a "medium-looking chap," a man of fifty, beard
grizzled, pale face, quietly dressed.  He seemed himself to be agitated.  The
porter had observed his hand trembling when he had held out the note.  Godfrey
Staunton had crammed the note into his pocket.  Staunton had not shaken hands
with the man in the hall.  They had exchanged a few sentences, of which the
porter had only distinguished the one word "time."  Then they had hurried off
in the manner described.  It was just half-past ten by the hall clock.
     "Let me see," said Holmes, seating himself on Staunton's bed.  "You are
the day porter, are you not?"
     "Yes, sir, I go off duty at eleven."
     "The night porter saw nothing, I suppose?"
     "No, sir, one theatre party came in late.  No one else."
     "Were you on duty all day yesterday?"
     "Yes, sir."
     "Did you take any messages to Mr. Staunton?"
     "Yes, sir, one telegram."
     "Ah!  that's interesting.  What o'clock was this?"
     "About six."
     "Where was Mr. Staunton when he received it?"
     "Here in his room."
     "Were you present when he opened it?"
     "Yes, sir, I waited to see if there was an answer."
     "Well, was there?"
     "Yes, sir, he wrote an answer."
     "Did you take it?"
     "No, he took it himself."
     "But he wrote it in your presence?"
     "Yes, sir.  I was standing by the door, and he with his back turned to
that table.  When he had written it, he said:  'All right, porter, I will take
this myself.'"
     "What did he write it with?"
     "A pen, sir."
     "Was the telegraphic form one of these on the table?"
     "Yes, sir, it was the top one."
     Holmes rose.  Taking the forms, he carried them over to the window and
carefully examined that which was uppermost.
     "It is a pity he did not write in pencil," said he, throwing them down
again with a shrug of disappointment.  "As you have no doubt frequently
observed, Watson, the impression usually goes through--a fact which has
dissolved many a happy marriage.  However, I can find no trace here.  I
rejoice, however, to perceive that he wrote with a broad-pointed quill pen,
and I can hardly doubt that we will find some impression upon this
blotting-pad.  Ah, yes, surely this is the very thing!"
     He tore off a strip of the blotting-paper and turned towards us the
following hieroglyphic:

                             {see Text Image A}

     Cyril Overton was much excited.  "Hold it to the glass!" he cried.
     "That is unnecessary," said Holmes.  "The paper is thin, and the reverse
will give the message.  Here it is."  He turned it over, and we read:

                             {see Text Image B}

     "So that is the tail end of the telegram which Godfrey Staunton
dispatched within a few hours of his disappearance.  There are at least six
words of the message which have escaped us; but what remains--'Stand by us for
God's sake!' --proves that this young man saw a formidable danger which
approached him, and from which someone else could protect him.  'Us,' mark
you!  Another person was involved.  Who should it be but the pale-faced,
bearded man, who seemed himself in so nervous a state?  What, then, is the
connection between Godfrey Staunton and the bearded man?  And what is the
third source from which each of them sought for help against pressing danger?
Our inquiry has already narrowed down to that."
     "We have only to find to whom that telegram is addressed," I suggested.
     "Exactly, my dear Watson.  Your reflection, though profound, had already
crossed my mind.  But I daresay it may have come to your notice that, if you
walk into a postoffice and demand to see the counterfoil of another man's
message, there may be some disinclination on the part of the officials to
oblige you.  There is so much red tape in these matters.  However, I have no
doubt that with a little delicacy and finesse the end may be attained.
Meanwhile, I should like in your presence, Mr. Overton, to go through these
papers which have been left upon the table."
     There were a number of letters, bills, and notebooks, which Holmes turned
over and examined with quick, nervous fingers and darting, penetrating eyes.
"Nothing here," he said, at last.  "By the way, I suppose your friend was a
healthy young fellow--nothing amiss with him?"
     "Sound as a bell."
     "Have you ever known him ill?"
     "Not a day.  He has been laid up with a hack, and once he slipped his
knee-cap, but that was nothing."
     "Perhaps he was not so strong as you suppose.  I should think he may have
had some secret trouble.  With your assent, I will put one or two of these
papers in my pocket, in case they should bear upon our future inquiry."
     "One moment--one moment!" cried a querulous voice, and we looked up to
find a queer little old man, jerking and twitching in the doorway.  He was
dressed in rusty black, with a very broad-brimmed top-hat and a loose white
necktie--the whole effect being that of a very rustic parson or of an
undertaker's mute.  Yet, in spite of his shabby and even absurd appearance,
his voice had a sharp crackle, and his manner a quick intensity which
commanded attention.
     "Who are you, sir, and by what right do you touch this gentleman's
papers?" he asked.
     "I am a private detective, and I am endeavouring to explain his
disappearance."
     "Oh, you are, are you?  And who instructed you, eh?"
     "This gentleman, Mr. Staunton's friend, was referred to me by Scotland
Yard."
     "Who are you, sir?"
     "I am Cyril Overton."
     "Then it is you who sent me a telegram.  My name is Lord Mount-James.  I
came round as quickly as the Bayswater bus would bring me.  So you have
instructed a detective?"
     "Yes, sir."
     "And are you prepared to meet the cost?"
     "I have no doubt, sir, that my friend Godfrey, when we find him, will be
prepared to do that."
     "But if he is never found, eh?  Answer me that!"
     "In that case, no doubt his family-- --"
     "Nothing of the sort, sir!" screamed the little man.  "Don't look to me
for a penny--not a penny!  You understand that, Mr. Detective!  I am all the
family that this young man has got, and I tell you that I am not responsible.
If he has any expectations it is due to the fact that I have never wasted
money, and I do not propose to begin to do so now.  As to those papers with
which you are making so free, I may tell you that in case there should be
anything of any value among them, you will be held strictly to account for
what you do with them."
     "Very good, sir," said Sherlock Holmes.  "May I ask, in the meanwhile,
whether you have yourself any theory to account for this young man's
disappearance?"
     "No, sir, I have not.  He is big enough and old enough to look after
himself, and if he is so foolish as to lose himself, I entirely refuse to
accept the responsibility of hunting for him."
     "I quite understand your position," said Holmes, with a mischievous
twinkle in his eyes.  "Perhaps you don't quite understand mine.  Godfrey
Staunton appears to have been a poor man.  If he has been kidnapped, it could
not have been for anything which he himself possesses.  The fame of your
wealth has gone abroad, Lord Mount-James, and it is entirely possible that a
gang of thieves have secured your nephew in order to gain from him some
information as to your house, your habits, and your treasure."
     The face of our unpleasant little visitor turned as white as his
neckcloth.
     "Heavens, sir, what an idea!  I never thought of such villainy!  What
inhuman rogues there are in the world!  But Godfrey is a fine lad--a staunch
lad.  Nothing would induce him to give his old uncle away.  I'll have the
plate moved over to the bank this evening.  In the meantime spare no pains,
Mr. Detective!  I beg you to leave no stone unturned to bring him safely back.
As to money, well, so far as a fiver or even a tenner goes you can always look
to me."
     Even in his chastened frame of mind, the noble miser could give us no
information which could help us, for he knew little of the private life of his
nephew.  Our only clue lay in the truncated telegram, and with a copy of this
in his hand Holmes set forth to find a second link for his chain.  We had
shaken off Lord Mount-James, and Overton had gone to consult with the other
members of his team over the misfortune which had befallen them.
     There was a telegraph-office at a short distance from the hotel.  We
halted outside it.
     "It's worth trying, Watson," said Holmes.  "Of course, with a warrant we
could demand to see the counterfoils, but we have not reached that stage yet.
I don't suppose they remember faces in so busy a place.  Let us venture it."
     "I am sorry to trouble you," said he, in his blandest manner, to the
young woman behind the grating; "there is some small mistake about a telegram
I sent yesterday.  I have had no answer, and I very much fear that I must have
omitted to put my name at the end.  Could you tell me if this was so?"
     The young woman turned over a sheaf of counterfoils.
     "What o'clock was it?" she asked.
     "A little after six."
     "Whom was it to?"
     Holmes put his finger to his lips and glanced at me.  "The last words in
it were 'for God's sake,'" he whispered, confidentially; "I am very anxious at
getting no answer."
     The young woman separated one of the forms.
     "This is it.  There is no name," said she, smoothing it out upon the
counter.
     "Then that, of course, accounts for my getting no answer," said Holmes.
"Dear me, how very stupid of me, to be sure!  Good-morning, miss, and many
thanks for having relieved my mind."  He chuckled and rubbed his hands when we
found ourselves in the street once more.
     "Well?" I asked.
     "We progress, my dear Watson, we progress.  I had seven different schemes
for getting a glimpse of that telegram, but I could hardly hope to succeed the
very first time."
     "And what have you gained?"
     "A starting-point for our investigation."  He hailed a cab.  "King's
Cross Station," said he.
     "We have a journey, then?"
     "Yes, I think we must run down to Cambridge together.  All the
indications seem to me to point in that direction."
     "Tell me," I asked, as we rattled up Gray's Inn Road, "have you any
suspicion yet as to the cause of the disappearance?  I don't think that among
all our cases I have known one where the motives are more obscure.  Surely you
don't really imagine that he may be kidnapped in order to give information
against his wealthy uncle?"
     "I confess, my dear Watson, that that does not appeal to me as a very
probable explanation.  It struck me, however, as being the one which was most
likely to interest that exceedingly unpleasant old person."
     "It certainly did that; but what are your alternatives?"
     "I could mention several.  You must admit that it is curious and
suggestive that this incident should occur on the eve of this important match,
and should involve the only man whose presence seems essential to the success
of the side.  It may, of course, be a coincidence, but it is interesting.
Amateur sport is free from betting, but a good deal of outside betting goes on
among the public, and it is possible that it might be worth someone's while to
get at a player as the ruffians of the turf get at a race-horse.  There is one
explanation.  A second very obvious one is that this young man really is the
heir of a great property, however modest his means may at present be, and it
is not impossible that a plot to hold him for ransom might be concocted."
     "These theories take no account of the telegram."
     "Quite true, Watson.  The telegram still remains the only solid thing
with which we have to deal, and we must not permit our attention to wander
away from it.  It is to gain light upon the purpose of this telegram that we
are now upon our way to Cambridge.  The path of our investigation is at
present obscure, but I shall be very much surprised if before evening we have
not cleared it up, or made a considerable advance along it."
     It was already dark when we reached the old university city.  Holmes took
a cab at the station and ordered the man to drive to the house of Dr. Leslie
Armstrong.  A few minutes later, we had stopped at a large mansion on the
busiest thoroughfare.  We were shown in, and after a long wait were at last
admitted into the consulting-room, where we found the doctor seated behind his
table.
     It argues the degree in which I had lost touch with my profession that
the name of Leslie Armstrong was unknown to me.  Now I am aware that he is not
only one of the heads of the medical school of the university, but a thinker
of European reputation in more than one branch of science.  Yet even without
knowing his brilliant record one could not fail to be impressed by a mere
glance at the man, the square, massive face, the brooding eyes under the
thatched brows, and the granite moulding of the inflexible jaw.  A man of deep
character, a man with an alert mind, grim, ascetic, self-contained,
formidable--so I read Dr. Leslie Armstrong.  He held my friend's card in his
hand, and he looked up with no very pleased expression upon his dour features.
     "I have heard your name, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and I am aware of your
profession--one of which I by no means approve."
     "In that, Doctor, you will find yourself in agreement with every criminal
in the country," said my friend, quietly.
     "So far as your efforts are directed towards the suppression of crime,
sir, they must have the support of every reasonable member of the community,
though I cannot doubt that the official machinery is amply sufficient for the
purpose.  Where your calling is more open to criticism is when you pry into
the secrets of private individuals, when you rake up family matters which are
better hidden, and when you incidentally waste the time of men who are more
busy than yourself.  At the present moment, for example, I should be writing a
treatise instead of conversing with you."
     "No doubt, Doctor; and yet the conversation may prove more important than
the treatise.  Incidentally, I may tell you that we are doing the reverse of
what you very justly blame, and that we are endeavouring to prevent anything
like public exposure of private matters which must necessarily follow when
once the case is fairly in the hands of the official police.  You may look
upon me simply as an irregular pioneer, who goes in front of the regular
forces of the country.  I have come to ask you about Mr. Godfrey Staunton."
     "What about him?"
     "You know him, do you not?"
     "He is an intimate friend of mine."
     "You are aware that he has disappeared?"
     "Ah, indeed!"  There was no change of expression in the rugged features
of the doctor.
     "He left his hotel last night--he has not been heard of."
     "No doubt he will return."
     "To-morrow is the 'Varsity football match."
     "I have no sympathy with these childish games.  The young man's fate
interests me deeply, since I know him and like him.  The football match does
not come within my horizon at all."
     "I claim your sympathy, then, in my investigation of Mr. Staunton's fate.
Do you know where he is?"
     "Certainly not."
     "You have not seen him since yesterday?"
     "No, I have not."
     "Was Mr. Staunton a healthy man?"
     "Absolutely."
     "Did you ever know him ill?"
     "Never."
     Holmes popped a sheet of paper before the doctor's eyes.  "Then perhaps
you will explain this receipted bill for thirteen guineas, paid by Mr. Godfrey
Staunton last month to Dr. Leslie Armstrong, of Cambridge.  I picked it out
from among the papers upon his desk."
     The doctor flushed with anger.
     "I do not feel that there is any reason why I should render an
explanation to you, Mr. Holmes."
     Holmes replaced the bill in his notebook.  "If you prefer a public
explanation, it must come sooner or later," said he.  "I have already told you
that I can hush up that which others will be bound to publish, and you would
really be wiser to take me into your complete confidence."
     "I know nothing about it."
     "Did you hear from Mr. Staunton in London?"
     "Certainly not."
     "Dear me, dear me--the postoffice again!"  Holmes sighed, wearily.  "A
most urgent telegram was dispatched to you from London by Godfrey Staunton at
six-fifteen yesterday evening--a telegram which is undoubtedly associated with
his disappearance--and yet you have not had it.  It is most culpable.  I shall
certainly go down to the office here and register a complaint."
     Dr. Leslie Armstrong sprang up from behind his desk, and his dark face
was crimson with fury.
     "I'll trouble you to walk out of my house, sir," said he.  "You can tell
your employer, Lord Mount-James, that I do not wish to have anything to do
either with him or with his agents.  No, sir--not another word!"  He rang the
bell furiously.  "John, show these gentlemen out!"  A pompous butler ushered
us severely to the door, and we found ourselves in the street.  Holmes burst
out laughing.
     "Dr. Leslie Armstrong is certainly a man of energy and character," said
he.  "I have not seen a man who, if he turns his talents that way, was more
calculated to fill the gap left by the illustrious Moriarty.  And now, my poor
Watson, here we are, stranded and friendless in this inhospitable town, which
we cannot leave without abandoning our case.  This little inn just opposite
Armstrong's house is singularly adapted to our needs.  If you would engage a
front room and purchase the necessaries for the night, I may have time to make
a few inquiries."
     These few inquiries proved, however, to be a more lengthy proceeding than
Holmes had imagined, for he did not return to the inn until nearly nine
o'clock.  He was pale and dejected, stained with dust, and exhausted with
hunger and fatigue.  A cold supper was ready upon the table, and when his
needs were satisfied and his pipe alight he was ready to take that half comic
and wholly philosophic view which was natural to him when his affairs were
going awry.  The sound of carriage wheels caused him to rise and glance out of
the window.  A brougham and pair of grays, under the glare of a gas-lamp,
stood before the doctor's door.
     "It's been out three hours," said Holmes; "started at half-past six, and
here it is back again.  That gives a radius of ten or twelve miles, and he
does it once, or sometimes twice, a day."
     "No unusual thing for a doctor in practice."
     "But Armstrong is not really a doctor in practice.  He is a lecturer and
a consultant, but he does not care for general practice, which distracts him
from his literary work.  Why, then, does he make these long journeys, which
must be exceedingly irksome to him, and who is it that he visits?"
     "His coachman-- --"
     "My dear Watson, can you doubt that it was to him that I first applied?
I do not know whether it came from his own innate depravity or from the
promptings of his master, but he was rude enough to set a dog at me.  Neither
dog nor man liked the look of my stick, however, and the matter fell through.
Relations were strained after that, and further inquiries out of the question.
All that I have learned I got from a friendly native in the yard of our own
inn.  It was he who told me of the doctor's habits and of his daily journey.
At that instant, to give point to his words, the carriage came round to the
door."
     "Could you not follow it?"
     "Excellent, Watson!  You are scintillating this evening.  The idea did
cross my mind.  There is, as you may have observed, a bicycle shop next to our
inn.  Into this I rushed, engaged a bicycle, and was able to get started
before the carriage was quite out of sight.  I rapidly overtook it, and then,
keeping at a discreet distance of a hundred yards or so, I followed its lights
until we were clear of the town.  We had got well out on the country road,
when a somewhat mortifying incident occurred.  The carriage stopped, the
doctor alighted, walked swiftly back to where I had also halted, and told me
in an excellent sardonic fashion that he feared the road was narrow, and that
he hoped his carriage did not impede the passage of my bicycle.  Nothing could
have been more admirable than his way of putting it.  I at once rode past the
carriage, and, keeping to the main road, I went on for a few miles, and then
halted in a convenient place to see if the carriage passed.  There was no sign
of it, however, and so it became evident that it had turned down one of
several side roads which I had observed.  I rode back, but again saw nothing
of the carriage, and now, as you perceive, it has returned after me.  Of
course, I had at the outset no particular reason to connect these journeys
with the disappearance of Godfrey Staunton, and was only inclined to
investigate them on the general grounds that everything which concerns Dr.
Armstrong is at present of interest to us, but, now that I find he keeps so
keen a look-out upon anyone who may follow him on these excursions, the affair
appears more important, and I shall not be satisfied until I have made the
matter clear."
     "We can follow him to-morrow."
     "Can we?  It is not so easy as you seem to think.  You are not familiar
with Cambridgeshire scenery, are you?  It does not lend itself to concealment.
All this country that I passed over to-night is as flat and clean as the palm
of your hand, and the man we are following is no fool, as he very clearly
showed to-night.  I have wired to Overton to let us know any fresh London
developments at this address, and in the meantime we can only concentrate our
attention upon Dr. Armstrong, whose name the obliging young lady at the office
allowed me to read upon the counterfoil of Staunton's urgent message.  He
knows where the young man is--to that I'll swear, and if he knows, then it
must be our own fault if we cannot manage to know also.  At present it must be
admitted that the odd trick is in his possession, and, as you are aware,
Watson, it is not my habit to leave the game in that condition."
     And yet the next day brought us no nearer to the solution of the mystery.
A note was handed in after breakfast, which Holmes passed across to me with a
smile.

          SIR [it ran]:
               I can assure you that you are wasting your time in dogging my
          movements.  I have, as you discovered last night, a window at the
          back of my brougham, and if you desire a twenty-mile ride which will
          lead you to the spot from which you started, you have only to follow
          me.  Meanwhile, I can inform you that no spying upon me can in any
          way help Mr. Godfrey Staunton, and I am convinced that the best
          service you can do to that gentleman is to return at once to London
          and to report to your employer that you are unable to trace him.
          Your time in Cambridge will certainly be wasted.
                                                Yours faithfully,
                                                        LESLIE ARMSTRONG.

     "An outspoken, honest antagonist is the doctor," said Holmes.  "Well,
well, he excites my curiosity, and I must really know before I leave him."
     "His carriage is at his door now," said I.  "There he is stepping into
it.  I saw him glance up at our window as he did so.  Suppose I try my luck
upon the bicycle?"
     "No, no, my dear Watson!  With all respect for your natural acumen, I do
not think that you are quite a match for the worthy doctor.  I think that
possibly I can attain our end by some independent explorations of my own.  I
am afraid that I must leave you to your own devices, as the appearance of two
inquiring strangers upon a sleepy countryside might excite more gossip than I
care for.  No doubt you will find some sights to amuse you in this venerable
city, and I hope to bring back a more favourable report to you before
evening."
     Once more, however, my friend was destined to be disappointed.  He came
back at night weary and unsuccessful.
     "I have had a blank day, Watson.  Having got the doctor's general
direction, I spent the day in visiting all the villages upon that side of
Cambridge, and comparing notes with publicans and other local news agencies.
I have covered some ground.  Chesterton, Histon, Waterbeach, and Oakington
have each been explored, and have each proved disappointing.  The daily
appearance of a brougham and pair could hardly have been overlooked in such
Sleepy Hollows.  The doctor has scored once more.  Is there a telegram for
me?"
     "Yes, I opened it.  Here it is:

          "Ask for Pompey from Jeremy Dixon, Trinity College.

I don't understand it."
     "Oh, it is clear enough.  It is from our friend Overton, and is in answer
to a question from me.  I'll just send round a note to Mr. Jeremy Dixon, and
then I have no doubt that our luck will turn.  By the way, is there any news
of the match?"
     "Yes, the local evening paper has an excellent account in its last
edition.  Oxford won by a goal and two tries.  The last sentences of the
description say:

               "The defeat of the Light Blues may be entirely attributed to
          the unfortunate absence of the crack International, Godfrey
          Staunton, whose want was felt at every instant of the game.  The
          lack of combination in the three-quarter line and their weakness
          both in attack and defence more than neutralized the efforts of a
          heavy and hard-working pack."

     "Then our friend Overton's forebodings have been justified," said Holmes.
"Personally I am in agreement with Dr. Armstrong, and football does not come
within my horizon.  Early to bed to-night, Watson, for I foresee that
to-morrow may be an eventful day."
     I was horrified by my first glimpse of Holmes next morning, for he sat by
the fire holding his tiny hypodermic syringe.  I associated that instrument
with the single weakness of his nature, and I feared the worst when I saw it
glittering in his hand.  He laughed at my expression of dismay and laid it
upon the table.
     "No, no, my dear fellow, there is no cause for alarm.  It is not upon
this occasion the instrument of evil, but it will rather prove to be the key
which will unlock our mystery.  On this syringe I base all my hopes.  I have
just returned from a small scouting expedition, and everything is favourable.
Eat a good breakfast, Watson, for I propose to get upon Dr. Armstrong's trail
to-day, and once on it I will not stop for rest or food until I run him to his
burrow."
     "In that case," said I, "we had best carry our breakfast with us, for he
is making an early start.  His carriage is at the door."
     "Never mind.  Let him go.  He will be clever if he can drive where I
cannot follow him.  When you have finished, come downstairs with me, and I
will introduce you to a detective who is a very eminent specialist in the work
that lies before us."
     When we descended I followed Holmes into the stable yard, where he opened
the door of a loose-box and led out a squat, lop-eared, white-and-tan dog,
something between a beagle and a foxhound.
     "Let me introduce you to Pompey," said he.  "Pompey is the pride of the
local draghounds--no very great flier, as his build will show, but a staunch
hound on a scent.  Well, Pompey, you may not be fast, but I expect you will be
too fast for a couple of middle-aged London gentlemen, so I will take the
liberty of fastening this leather leash to your collar.  Now, boy, come along,
and show what you can do."  He led him across to the doctor's door.  The dog
sniffed round for an instant, and then with a shrill whine of excitement
started off down the street, tugging at his leash in his efforts to go faster.
In half an hour, we were clear of the town and hastening down a country road.
     "What have you done, Holmes?" I asked.
     "A threadbare and venerable device, but useful upon occasion.  I walked
into the doctor's yard this morning, and shot my syringe full of aniseed over
the hind wheel.  A draghound will follow aniseed from here to John o' Groat's,
and our friend, Armstrong, would have to drive through the Cam before he would
shake Pompey off his trail.  Oh, the cunning rascal!  This is how he gave me
the slip the other night."
     The dog had suddenly turned out of the main road into a grass-grown lane.
Half a mile farther this opened into another broad road, and the trail turned
hard to the right in the direction of the town, which we had just quitted.
The road took a sweep to the south of the town, and continued in the opposite
direction to that in which we started.
     "This detour has been entirely for our benefit, then?" said Holmes.  "No
wonder that my inquiries among those villagers led to nothing.  The doctor has
certainly played the game for all it is worth, and one would like to know the
reason for such elaborate deception.  This should be the village of
Trumpington to the right of us.  And, by Jove!  here is the brougham coming
round the corner.  Quick, Watson--quick, or we are done!"
     He sprang through a gate into a field, dragging the reluctant Pompey
after him.  We had hardly got under the shelter of the hedge when the carriage
rattled past.  I caught a glimpse of Dr. Armstrong within, his shoulders
bowed, his head sunk on his hands, the very image of distress.  I could tell
by my companion's graver face that he also had seen.
     "I fear there is some dark ending to our quest," said he.  "It cannot be
long before we know it.  Come, Pompey!  Ah, it is the cottage in the field!"
     There could be no doubt that we had reached the end of our journey.
Pompey ran about and whined eagerly outside the gate, where the marks of the
brougham's wheels were still to be seen.  A footpath led across to the lonely
cottage.  Holmes tied the dog to the hedge, and we hastened onward.  My friend
knocked at the little rustic door, and knocked again without response.  And
yet the cottage was not deserted, for a low sound came to our ears--a kind of
drone of misery and despair which was indescribably melancholy.  Holmes paused
irresolute, and then he glanced back at the road which he had just traversed.
A brougham was coming down it, and there could be no mistaking those gray
horses.
     "By Jove, the doctor is coming back!" cried Holmes.  "That settles it.
We are bound to see what it means before he comes."
     He opened the door, and we stepped into the hall.  The droning sound
swelled louder upon our ears until it became one long, deep wail of distress.
It came from upstairs.  Holmes darted up, and I followed him.  He pushed open
a half-closed door, and we both stood appalled at the sight before us.
     A woman, young and beautiful, was lying dead upon the bed.  Her calm,
pale face, with dim, wide-opened blue eyes, looked upward from amid a great
tangle of golden hair.  At the foot of the bed, half sitting, half kneeling,
his face buried in the clothes, was a young man, whose frame was racked by his
sobs.  So absorbed was he by his bitter grief, that he never looked up until
Holmes's hand was on his shoulder.
     "Are you Mr. Godfrey Staunton?"
     "Yes, yes, I am--but you are too late.  She is dead."
     The man was so dazed that he could not be made to understand that we were
anything but doctors who had been sent to his assistance.  Holmes was
endeavouring to utter a few words of consolation and to explain the alarm
which had been caused to his friends by his sudden disappearance when there
was a step upon the stairs, and there was the heavy, stern, questioning face
of Dr. Armstrong at the door.
     "So, gentlemen," said he, "you have attained your end and have certainly
chosen a particularly delicate moment for your intrusion.  I would not brawl
in the presence of death, but I can assure you that if I were a younger man
your monstrous conduct would not pass with impunity."
     "Excuse me, Dr. Armstrong, I think we are a little at cross-purposes,"
said my friend, with dignity.  "If you could step downstairs with us, we may
each be able to give some light to the other upon this miserable affair."
     A minute later, the grim doctor and ourselves were in the sitting-room
below.
     "Well, sir?" said he.
     "I wish you to understand, in the first place, that I am not employed by
Lord Mount-James, and that my sympathies in this matter are entirely against
that nobleman.  When a man is lost it is my duty to ascertain his fate, but
having done so the matter ends so far as I am concerned, and so long as there
is nothing criminal I am much more anxious to hush up private scandals than to
give them publicity.  If, as I imagine, there is no breach of the law in this
matter, you can absolutely depend upon my discretion and my cooperation in
keeping the facts out of the papers."
     Dr. Armstrong took a quick step forward and wrung Holmes by the hand.
     "You are a good fellow," said he.  "I had misjudged you.  I thank heaven
that my compunction at leaving poor Staunton all alone in this plight caused
me to turn my carriage back and so to make your acquaintance.  Knowing as much
as you do, the situation is very easily explained.  A year ago Godfrey
Staunton lodged in London for a time and became passionately attached to his
landlady's daughter, whom he married.  She was as good as she was beautiful
and as intelligent as she was good.  No man need be ashamed of such a wife.
But Godfrey was the heir to this crabbed old nobleman, and it was quite
certain that the news of his marriage would have been the end of his
inheritance.  I knew the lad well, and I loved him for his many excellent
qualities.  I did all I could to help him to keep things straight.  We did our
very best to keep the thing from everyone, for, when once such a whisper gets
about, it is not long before everyone has heard it.  Thanks to this lonely
cottage and his own discretion, Godfrey has up to now succeeded.  Their secret
was known to no one save to me and to one excellent servant, who has at
present gone for assistance to Trumpington.  But at last there came a terrible
blow in the shape of dangerous illness to his wife.  It was consumption of the
most virulent kind.  The poor boy was half crazed with grief, and yet he had
to go to London to play this match, for he could not get out of it without
explanations which would expose his secret.  I tried to cheer him up by wire,
and he sent me one in reply, imploring me to do all I could.  This was the
telegram which you appear in some inexplicable way to have seen.  I did not
tell him how urgent the danger was, for I knew that he could do no good here,
but I sent the truth to the girl's father, and he very injudiciously
communicated it to Godfrey.  The result was that he came straight away in a
state bordering on frenzy, and has remained in the same state, kneeling at the
end of her bed, until this morning death put an end to her sufferings.  That
is all, Mr. Holmes, and I am sure that I can rely upon your discretion and
that of your friend."
     Holmes grasped the doctor's hand.
     "Come, Watson," said he, and we passed from that house of grief into the
pale sunlight of the winter day.