In vain I endeavored to interest him in Afghanistan, in India, insocial questions, in anything which might take his mind out of thegroove. He would always come back to his lost treaty, wondering,guessing, speculating, as to what Holmes was doing, what stepsLord Holdhurst was taking, what news we should have in themorning. As the evening wore on his excitement became quitepainful.
“You have implicit faith in Holmes?” he asked.
“I have seen him do some remarkable things.”
“But he never brought light into anything quite so dark as this?”
“Oh, yes, I have known him solve questions which presentedfewer clues than yours.”
“But not where such large interests are at stake?”
“I don’t know that. To my certain knowledge he has acted onbehalf of three of the reigning houses of Europe in very vitalmatters.”
“But you know him well, Watson. He is such an inscrutablefellow that I never quite know what to make of him. Do you thinkhe is hopeful? Do you think he expects to make a success of it?”
“He has said nothing.”
“That is a bad sign.”
“On the contrary, I have noticed that when he is off the trailhe generally says so. It is when he is on a scent and is not quiteabsolutely sure yet that it is the right one that he is most taciturn.
Now, my dear fellow, we can’t help matters by making ourselvesnervous about them, so let me implore you to go to bed and so befresh for whatever may await us to-morrow.”
I was able at last to persuade my companion to take my advice,though I knew from his excited manner that there was not muchhope of sleep for him. Indeed, his mood was infectious, for I laytossing half the night myself, brooding over this strange problem,and inventing a hundred theories, each of which was moreimpossible than the last. Why had Holmes remained at Woking?
Why had he asked Miss Harrison to remain in the sick-roomall day? Why had he been so careful not to inform the people atBriarbrae that he intended to remain near them? I cudgelled mybrains until I fell asleep in the endeavor to find some explanationwhich would cover all these facts.
It was seven o’clock when I awoke, and I set off at once forPhelps’s room, to find him haggard and spent after a sleeplessnight. His first question was whether Holmes had arrived yet.
“He’ll be here when he promised,” said I, “and not an instantsooner or later.”
And my words were true, for shortly after eight a hansomdashed up to the door and our friend got out of it. Standing in thewindow we saw that his left hand was swathed in a bandage andthat his face was very grim and pale. He entered the house, but itwas some little time before he came upstairs.
“He looks like a beaten man,” cried Phelps.
I was forced to confess that he was right. “After all,” said I, “theclue of the matter lies probably here in town.”
Phelps gave a groan.
“I don’t know how it is,” said he, “but I had hoped for so muchfrom his return. But surely his hand was not tied up like thatyesterday. What can be the matter?”
“You are not wounded, Holmes?” I asked, as my friend enteredthe room.
“Tut, it is only a scratch through my own clumsiness,” heanswered, nodding his good-mornings to us. “This case of yours,Mr. Phelps, is certainly one of the darkest which I have everinvestigated.”
“I feared that you would find it beyond you.”
“It has been a most remarkable experience.”
“That bandage tells of adventures,” said I. “Won’t you tell uswhat has happened?”
“After breakfast, my dear Watson. Remember that I havebreathed thirty miles of Surrey air this morning. I suppose thatthere has been no answer from my cabman advertisement? Well,well, we cannot expect to score every time.”
The table was all laid, and just as I was about to ring Mrs. Hudsonentered with the tea and coffee. A few minutes later she brought inthree covers, and we all drew up to the table, Holmes ravenous, Icurious, and Phelps in the gloomiest state of depression.
“Mrs. Hudson has risen to the occasion,” said Holmes, uncoveringa dish of curried chicken. “Her cuisine is a little limited, but she hasas good an idea of breakfast as a Scotchwoman. What have youhere, Watson?”
“Ham and eggs,” I answered.
“Good! What are you going to take, Mr. Phelps—curried fowl oreggs, or will you help yourself?”
“Thank you. I can eat nothing,” said Phelps.
“Oh, come! Try the dish before you.”
“Thank you, I would really rather not.”
“Well, then,” said Holmes, with a mischievous twinkle, “Isuppose that you have no objection to helping me?”
Phelps raised the cover, and as he did so he uttered a scream,and sat there staring with a face as white as the plate upon whichhe looked. Across the centre of it was lying a little cylinder ofblue-gray paper. He caught it up, devoured it with his eyes, andthen danced madly about the room, pressing it to his bosom andshrieking out in his delight. Then he fell back into an arm-chairso limp and exhausted with his own emotions that we had to pourbrandy down his throat to keep him from fainting.
“There! there!” said Holmes, soothing, patting him upon theshoulder. “It was too bad to spring it on you like this, but Watsonhere will tell you that I never can resist a touch of the dramatic.”
Phelps seized his hand and kissed it. “God bless you!” he cried.
“You have saved my honor.”
“Well, my own was at stake, you know,” said Holmes. “I assureyou it is just as hateful to me to fail in a case as it can be to you toblunder over a commission.”
Phelps thrust away the precious document into the innermostpocket of his coat.
“I have not the heart to interrupt your breakfast any further,and yet I am dying to know how you got it and where it was.”
Sherlock Holmes swallowed a cup of coffee and turned hisattention to the ham and eggs. Then he rose, lit his pipe, andsettled himself down into his chair.
