Now, I knew that them two houses in Lauriston Gardens wasempty on account of him that owns them who won’t have thedrains seed to, though the very last tenant what lived in one ofthem died o’ typhoid fever. I was knocked all in a heap, therefore,at seeing a light in the window, and I suspected as something waswrong. When I got to the door——”
“You stopped, and then walked back to the garden gate,” mycompanion interrupted. “What did you do that for?”
Rance gave a violent jump, and stared at Sherlock Holmes withthe utmost amazement upon his features.
“Why, that’s true, sir,” he said; “though how you come to knowit, Heaven only knows. Ye see when I got up to the door, it wasso still and so lonesome, that I thought I’d be none the worsefor someone with me. I ain’t afeared of anything on this side o’
the grave; but I thought that maybe it was him that died o’ thetyphoid inspecting the drains what killed him. The thought gaveme a kind o’ turn, and I walked back to the gate to see if I couldsee Murcher’s lantern, but there wasn’t no sign of him nor ofanyone else.”
“There was no one in the street?”
“Not a livin’ soul, sir, nor as much as a dog. Then I pulled myselftogether and went back and pushed the door open. All was quietinside, so I went into the room where the light was a-burnin’ .
There was a candle flickerin’ on the mantelpiece—a red wax one—and by its light I saw——”
“Yes, I know all that you saw. You walked round the roomseveral times, and you knelt down by the body, and then youwalked through and tried the kitchen door, and then——”
John Rance sprang to his feet with a frightened face andsuspicion in his eyes. “Where was you hid to see all that?” he cried.
“It seems to me that you knows a deal more than you should.”
Holmes laughed and threw his card across the table to theconstable. “Don’t go arresting me for the murder,” he said. “I amone of the hounds and not the wolf; Mr. Gregson or Mr. Lestradewill answer for that. Go on, though. What did you do next?”
Rance resumed his seat, without however, losing his mystifiedexpression. “I went back to the gate and sounded my whistle. Thatbrought Murcher and two more to the spot.”
“Was the street empty then?”
“Well, it was, as far as anybody that could be of any good goes.”
“What do you mean?”
The constable’s features broadened into a grin. “I’ve seen manya drunk chap in my time,” he said, “but never anyone so cryin’
drunk as that cove. He was at the gate when I came out, a-leanin’
up ag’in the railings, and a-singin’ at the pitch o’ his lungs aboutColumbine’s New-fangled Banner, or some such stuff. He couldn’tstand, far less help.”
“What sort of a man was he?” asked Sherlock Holmes.
John Rance appeared to be somewhat irritated at this digression.
“He was an uncommon drunk sort o’ man,” he said. “He’d ha’
found hisself in the station if we hadn’t been so took up.”
“His face—his dress—didn’t you notice them?” Holmes broke inimpatiently.
“I should think I did notice them, seeing that I had to prop himup—me and Murcher between us. He was a long chap, with a redface, the lower part muffled round——”
“That will do,” cried Holmes. “What became of him?”
“We’d enough to do without lookin’ after him,” the policemansaid, in an aggrieved voice. “I’ll wager he found his way home allright.”
“How was he dressed?”
“A brown overcoat.”
“Had he a whip in his hand?”
“A whip—no.”
“He must have left it behind,” muttered my companion. “Youdidn’t happen to see or hear a cab after that?”
“No.”
“There’s a half-sovereign for you,” my companion said, standingup and taking his hat. “I am afraid, Rance, that you will neverrise in the force. That head of yours should be for use as well asornament. You might have gained your sergeant’s stripes last night.
The man whom you held in your hands is the man who holds theclue of this mystery, and whom we are seeking. There is no use ofarguing about it now; I tell you that it is so. Come along, Doctor.”
We started off for the cab together, leaving our informantincredulous, but obviously uncomfortable.
“The blundering fool!” Holmes said, bitterly, as we drove backto our lodgings. “Just to think of his having such an incomparablebit of good luck, and not taking advantage of it.”
“I am rather in the dark still. It is true that the description ofthis man tallies with your idea of the second party in this mystery.
But why should he come back to the house after leaving it? That isnot the way of criminals.”
“The ring, man, the ring: that was what he came back for. Ifwe have no other way of catching him, we can always bait ourline with the ring. I shall have him, Doctor—I’ll lay you twoto one that I have him. I must thank you for it all. I mightnot have gone but for you, and so have missed the finest studyI ever came across: a study in scarlet, eh? Why shouldn’t weuse a little art jargon. There’s the scarlet thread of murderrunning through the colourless skein of life, and our duty is tounravel it, and isolate it, and expose every inch of it. And nowfor lunch, and then for Norman Neruda. Her attack and herbowing are splendid. What’s that little thing of Chopin’s sheplays so magnificently: Tra-la-la-lira-lira-lay.”
Leaning back in the cab, this amateur bloodhound carolledaway like a lark while I meditated upon the many-sidedness of thehuman mind.
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OUR morning’s exertions had been too much for my weakhealth, and I was tired out in the afternoon. After Holmes’
departure for the concert, I lay down upon the sofa andendeavoured to get a couple of hours’ sleep. It was a uselessattempt. My mind had been too much excited by all that hadoccurred, and the strangest fancies and surmises crowded into it.
