“It won’t be funny for you, Steve, if I get after you. I gave youfair warning this morning.”
“Well, Masser Holmes, I done gone think over what you said,and I don’t want no more talk about that affair of Masser Perkins.
S’pose I can help you, Masser Holmes, I will.”
“Well, then, tell me who is behind you on this job.”
“So help me the Lord! Masser Holmes, I told you the truthbefore. I don’t know. My boss Barney gives me orders and that’s all.”
“Well, just bear in mind, Steve, that the lady in that house, andeverything under that roof, is under my protection. Don’t forgetit.”
“All right, Masser Holmes. I’ll remember.”
“I’ve got him thoroughly frightened for his own skin, Watson,”
Holmes remarked as we walked on. “I think he would doublecrosshis employer if he knew who he was. It was lucky I had someknowledge of the Spencer John crowd, and that Steve was oneof them. Now, Watson, this is a case for Langdale Pike, and I amgoing to see him now. When I get back I may be clearer in thematter.”
I saw no more of Holmes during the day, but I could wellimagine how he spent it, for Langdale Pike was his human book ofreference upon all matters of social scandal. This strange, languidcreature spent his waking hours in the bow window of a St. James’sStreet club and was the receivingstation as well as the transmitterfor all the gossip of the metropolis. He made, it was said, a fourfigureincome by the paragraphs which he contributed every weekto the garbage papers which cater to an inquisitive public. If ever,far down in the turbid depths of London life, there was somestrange swirl or eddy, it was marked with automatic exactnessby this human dial upon the surface. Holmes discreetly helpedLangdale to knowledge, and on occasion was helped in turn.
When I met my friend in his room early next morning, I wasconscious from his bearing that all was well, but none the less amost unpleasant surprise was awaiting us. It took the shape of thefollowing telegram:
Please come out at once. Client’s house burgled in the night. Policein possession.
SUTRO.
Holmes whistled. “The drama has come to a crisis, and quickerthan I had expected. There is a great driving-power at the backof this business, Watson, which does not surprise me after what Ihave heard. This Sutro, of course, is her lawyer. I made a mistake,I fear, in not asking you to spend the night on guard. This fellowhas clearly proved a broken reed. Well, there is nothing for it butanother journey to Harrow Weald.”
We found The Three Gables a very different establishment tothe orderly household of the previous day. A small group of idlershad assembled at the garden gate, while a couple of constableswere examining the windows and the geranium beds. Within wemet a gray old gentleman, who introduced himself as the lawyertogether with a bustling, rubicund inspector, who greeted Hoimesas an old friend.
“Well, Mr. Holmes, no chance for you in this case, I’m afraid.
Just a common, ordinary burglary, and well within the capacity ofthe poor old police. No experts need apply.”
“I am sure the case is in very good hands,” said Holmes. “Merelya common burglary, you say?”
“Quite so. We know pretty well who the men are and where tofind them. It is that gang of Barney Stockdale, with the big niggerin it—they’ve been seen about here.”
“Excellent! What did they get?”
“Well, they don’t seem to have got much. Mrs. Maberley waschloroformed and the house was—Ah! here is the lady herself.”
Our friend of yesterday, looking very pale and ill, had enteredthe room, leaning upon a little maidservant.
“You gave me good advice, Mr. Holmes,” said she, smilingruefully. “Alas, I did not take it! I did not wish to trouble Mr.
Sutro, and so I was unprotected.”
“I only heard of it this morning,” the lawyer explained.
“Mr. Holmes advised me to have some friend in the house. Ineglected his advice, and I have paid for it.”
“You look wretchedly ill,” said Holmes. “Perhaps you are hardlyequal to telling me what occurred.”
“It is all here,” said the inspector, tapping a bulky notebook.
“Still, if the lady is not too exhausted——”
“There is really so little to tell. I have no doubt that wickedSusan had planned an entrance for them. They must have knownthe house to an inch. I was conscious for a moment of thechloroform rag which was thrust over my mouth, but I have nonotion how long I may have been senseless. When I woke, oneman was at the bedside and another was rising with a bundle in hishand from among my son’s baggage, which was partially openedand littered over the floor. Before he could get away I sprang upand seized him.”
“You took a big risk,” said the inspector.
“I clung to him, but he shook me off, and the other may havestruck me, for I can remember no more. Mary the maid heard thenoise and began screaming out of the window. That brought thepolice, but the rascals had got away.”
“What did they take?”
“Well, I don’t think there is anything of value missing. I am surethere was nothing in my son’s trunks.”
“Did the men leave no clue?”
“There was one sheet of paper which I may have torn from theman that I grasped. It was lying all crumpled on the floor. It is inmy son’s handwriting.”
“Which means that it is not of much use,” said the inspector.
“Now if it had been in the burglar’s——”
“Exactly,” said Holmes. “What rugged common sense! None theless, I should be curious to see it.”
The inspector drew a folded sheet of foolscap from his pocketbook.
“I never pass anything, however trifling,” said he with somepomposity. “That is my advice to you, Mr. Holmes. In twentyfiveyears’ experience I have learned my lesson. There is always thechance of finger-marks or something.”
Holmes inspected the sheet of paper.
“What do you make of it, Inspector?”
“Seems to be the end of some queer novel, so far as I can see.”
“It may certainly prove to be the end of a queer tale,” saidHolmes. “You have noticed the number on the top of the page.
It is two hundred and forty-five. Where are the odd two hundredand forty-four pages?”
“Well, I suppose the burglars got those. Much good may it dothem!”
