There seems no other way, and fortunately we need concernourselves with the one paper only. Here are the Daily Gazetteextracts of the last fortnight. ‘Lady with a black boa at Prince’sSkating Club’ —that we may pass. ‘Surely Jimmy will not breakhis mother’s heart’ —that appears to be irrelevant. ‘If the ladywho fainted in Brixton bus’ —she does not interest me. ‘Everyday my heart longs—’ Bleat, Watson—unmitigated bleat! Ah,this is a little more possible. Listen to this: ‘Be patient. Will findsome sure means of communications. Meanwhile, this column.
G.’ That is two days after Mrs. Warren’s lodger arrived. It soundsplausible, does it not? The mysterious one could understandEnglish, even if he could not print it. Let us see if we can pick upthe trace again. Yes, here we are—three days later. ‘Am makingsuccessful arrangements. Patience and prudence. The clouds willpass. G.’ Nothing for a week after that. Then comes something muchmore definite: ‘The path is clearing. If I find chance signal messageremember code agreed—One A, two B, and so on. You will hear soon.
G.’ That was in yesterday’s paper, and there is nothing in to-day’s.
It’s all very appropriate to Mrs. Warren’s lodger. If we wait a little,Watson, I don’t doubt that the affair will grow more intelligible.”
So it proved; for in the morning I found my friend standing onthe hearthrug with his back to the fire and a smile of completesatisfaction upon his face.
“How’s this, Watson?” he cried, picking up the paper from thetable. “ ‘High red house with white stone facings. Third floor.
Second window left. After dusk. G.’ That is definite enough. Ithink after breakfast we must make a little reconnaissance of Mrs.
Warren’s neighbourhood. Ah, Mrs. Warren! what news do youbring us this morning?”
Our client had suddenly burst into the room with an explosiveenergy which told of some new and momentous development.
“It’s a police matter, Mr. Holmes!” she cried. “I’ll have no moreof it! He shall pack out of there with his baggage. I would havegone straight up and told him so, only I thought it was but fair toyou to take your opinion first. But I’m at the end of my patience,and when it comes to knocking my old man about—”
“Knocking Mr. Warren about?”
“Using him roughly, anyway.”
“But who used him roughly?”
“Ah! that’s what we want to know! It was this morning, sir. Mr.
Warren is a timekeeper at Morton and Waylight’s, in TottenhamCourt Road. He has to be out of the house before seven. Well, thismorning he had not gone ten paces down the road when two mencame up behind him, threw a coat over his head, and bundled himinto a cab that was beside the curb. They drove him an hour, andthen opened the door and shot him out. He lay in the roadwayso shaken in his wits that he never saw what became of the cab.
When he picked himself up he found he was on HampsteadHeath; so he took a bus home, and there he lies now on his sofa,while I came straight round to tell you what had happened.”
“Most interesting,” said Holmes. “Did he observe the appearanceof these men—did he hear them talk?”
“No; he is clean dazed. He just knows that he was lifted up as ifby magic and dropped as if by magic. Two a least were in it, andmaybe three.”
“And you connect this attack with your lodger?”
“Well, we’ve lived there fifteen years and no such happeningsever came before. I’ve had enough of him. Money’s not everything.
I’ll have him out of my house before the day is done.”
“Wait a bit, Mrs. Warren. Do nothing rash. I begin to think thatthis affair may be very much more important than appeared at firstsight. It is clear now that some danger is threatening your lodger.
It is equally clear that his enemies, lying in wait for him near yourdoor, mistook your husband for him in the foggy morning light.
On discovering their mistake they released him. What they wouldhave done had it not been a mistake, we can only conjecture.”
“Well, what am I to do, Mr. Holmes?”
“I have a great fancy to see this lodger of yours, Mrs. Warren.”
“I don’t see how that is to be managed, unless you break in thedoor. I always hear him unlock it as I go down the stair after Ileave the tray.”
“He has to take the tray in. Surely we could conceal ourselvesand see him do it.”
The landlady thought for a moment.
“Well, sir, there’s the box-room opposite. I could arrange alooking-glass, maybe, and if you were behind the door——”
“Excellent!” said Holmes. “When does he lunch?”
“About one, sir.”
“Then Dr. Watson and I will come round in time. For thepresent, Mrs. Warren, good-bye.”
At half-past twelve we found ourselves upon the steps of Mrs.
Warren’s house—a high, thin, yellow-brick edifice in Great OrmeStreet, a narrow thoroughfare at the northeast side of the BritishMuseum. Standing as it does near the corner of the street, itcommands a view down Howe Street, with its ore pretentioushouses. Holmes pointed with a chuckle to one of these, a row ofresidential flats, which projected so that they could not fail tocatch the eye.
“See, Watson!” said he. “ ‘High red house with stone facings.’
There is the signal station all right. We know the place, and weknow the code; so surely our task should be simple. There’s a ‘tolet’ card in that window. It is evidently an empty flat to which theconfederate has access. Well, Mrs. Warren, what now?”
“I have it all ready for you. If you will both come up and leaveyour boots below on the landing, I’ll put you there now.”
