Sherlock Holmes and the Sacred Sword

Frank Thomas

And the Sacred Sword

Adapted from the memoirs of John H. Watson. M.D.

Preface

That Sherlock Holmes was sans peer as regards the fine art of deduction is uncontested. That his exploits sparked the halcyon days of the late-Victorian period with wonder and excitement is universally accepted. But where, pray tell, would readers be were it not for that staunch and loyal man of medicine John H. Watson, M.D.? It was his eye for detail and his facile pen that gave us the adventures of that most unusual individual, Sherlock Holmes. Without Watson, Holmes would be but a dim legend, if indeed that.

The Doctor's passing severed that final living link with those fascinating years during which his friend reigned supreme and criminals cringed at the mention of his name. But Watson left his words, thank heaven.

Here's a toast to that gentle and patient man who so enriched his generation of readers and all those that followed: To Watson, noble benefactor of both the science of criminology throughout the world, and fascinated readers everywhere.

And one last note: I am grateful to have been on the spot that harrowing night during the London Blitz when Cox & Company, banking firm of Charing Cross, was bombed out of existence. For it was then that the famous dispatch box containing the priceless unpublished cases came into my hands.

Now . . . back to the days of derring-do and deduction too.

Back to the mists and moonlight where it is always 1895.

—Frank Thomas Los Angeles, 1980

Acknowledgments

In transferring Doctor Watson's word to the printed page, the author benefited from the assistance and encouragement of that foremost Holmes scholar and lecturer, John Bennett Shaw of Santa Fe, New Mexico. And Professor L. L. Aaronson, Institute of Romance Languages, checked the language of the period.

Elsie Probasco provided superior research, and Mona and Frank proofed copy and made workable suggestions. Thank you Mother and Dad.

Chapter One

The Dying Man

It was the evening of one of those rare days when there was an aura of peace at 221B Baker Street. Sherlock Holmes, with no case of importance at the moment, was seated at the desk, pipe in mouth, affixing clippings in one of his great file volumes. The precipitation that had manifested itself with pugnacious persistence during the afternoon showed no signs of abating. Globules of moisture were marching earthward in endless, serried ranks to be whisked from their vertical descent by gusts of north wind and fired against our windows like tiny pellets from a massed battery of celestial air guns.

Holmes, like all true artists, was highly susceptible to moods and influenced by his surroundings. I anticipated that the inclemency would foster one of his dark periods, but his manner had been singularly cheerful during dinner. True, he had remarked somewhat peevishly that the criminal classes had displayed a deplorable lack of invention of late, but this was a familiar complaint uttered more from habit than conviction. To believe him would be to consider that crime was on the wane, an obviously false contention when one considered the two casebooks already filled with Holmes's exploits of the past twelve months.

I was occupied with the recording of certain of Holmes's doings—before, as he once said, "they become churned by the undertow of time." I had just realized that some notes I required were in my bed stand upstairs when I heard the sound that my subconscious had been waiting for. The paste-pot was shoved aside, the file volume was closed, and Holmes was on his feet. Restless, of course. His footsteps crossed the room and there was the tap of his pipe against the mantel dislodging dottle from its bowl.

As I rose and crossed to the back stairs, I made a silent wager that within two minutes he would begin his nervous pacing of our quarters, his brain yearning for facts as other men hungered for food. He would become testy, resentful of the fact that the finest mind in England was without a puzzle in which to insert the probe of specialized knowledge. But then, I thought as I entered my bedchamber, we have been through this before. The wheels due to spin for genius seldom remain dormant for long. Events proved me right.

There was the ring of the ground-floor door and when I descended to our sitting room, Holmes was on the landing gazing down the seventeen steps leading to our first-floor chambers.

"Come up, man, by all means," he called down the stairwell. "Billy," he continued in a softer voice, "not a word of this to Mrs. Hudson."

I found this remark puzzling until a huge form appeared at our door. That in itself was not surprising since visitors to Baker Street came in all sizes, but this one was carrying another man in his arms. As he crossed to deposit his burden on our couch, I instinctively headed for my medical bag beside the cane rack. Billy, the pageboy, was on the landing and he gave Holmes a look of understanding as he closed the door.

When the large man retreated from the couch to allow me to inspect the body on it, Holmes muttered, "Watson, this is Burlington Bertie, an acquaintance of mine."

I nodded in acknowledgment—and then my breath was dragged into my lungs, an involuntary reaction to a grimy shirt soaked with blood. Wound around the middle of the body was a white silk scarf, which I cut loose. There were three vicious knife wounds in the man's abdomen and chest. My stethoscope revealed that his heartbeat was so faint I had trouble finding it. I looked up at a grim-faced Holmes and the huge man beside him with that, alas, frequent complaint of my profession.

"The man is dying, and there is nothing I can do."

"Aye," mouthed Burlington Bertie. "'Twas me thought 'e'd about had it."

As though to disprove my diagnosis, the body on the couch twitched slightly and from slack lips came a sound like an exhalation.

"Holmes . . ."

My friend was beside the body in a trice.

"Yes," he said, his steely eyes intent on the prostrate figure.

"They . . . they found it."

The words were barely audible and there was a froth of blood in the corners of his mouth. "Chu . . . it's Chu. . . ."

The colorless lips, stark against an ebony black face, tried to form more words, but the effort was too much. Suddenly the face fell to one side and the features sagged. His eyes had been closed tight as though screwed against pain, but now they opened as a final signal that the end had come.

My hands moved automatically, returning instruments to my valise. Then I gently closed those staring eyes, as inanimate now as two agate marbles.

In deference to a departed soul, there was a lengthy silence broken only by the somewhat stentorian breathing of Bertie standing alongside the whipcord body of my friend. I used pieces of the long silk sash to clean up the blood around the wounds in the corpse and then rose to my feet with a sigh.

"'E went out like a man," said Burlington Bertie to no one in particular.

"Best tell us about it."

Holmes's eyes found mine, and after depositing the bloodstained silk in our wastebasket, I made for the tantalus and gasogene.

"'Ow 'bout 'im?" A grimy thumb indicated the body.

"He's not going anywhere." Holmes crossed to the mantel and extracted shag from the toe of the famous Persian slipper. "Where did it happen?"

"East Hindian Docks, Guv. I was amblin' along mindin' me business loik always, but I ain't never been deef. There's this rumpus and some shouts and then, through the rine, I sees this cove battlin' with three boyos 'oo is definitely tryin' to do 'im in. The odds looks a little rum and while I'm tellin' meself to keep outa trouble, this 'un 'ere, the Negro, fetches one rascal a sharp crack and 'e comes stumblin' back agin me. 'E turns, 'e does, and I sees a flash of metal, so I coshed 'im alongside the ear and 'e staggers back off the end of the dock and there's a splash. Another one of these 'ere blokes turns on me and some'ow me foot gets tangled up wiv 'is and 'e goes down. I figgers 'e best stay there and I gives 'im a clip wiv me boot and 'e's quiet like. Well, by now I'm kinda gettin' me steam up but the Negro, 'e swings the third boyo in a sorta arm lock and then lets go of 'im and 'e flies across the dock and goes off the side. But there's no splash, just a kinda soggy sound like a glob of suet bein' thrown against a wall. 'E got mixed up with the pilings, you see, so it's not to worry 'bout 'im. But this 'ere Negro, 'e ain't in such good shape as I can readily see, so I pulls off my nuck—"

"Nuck?" I regretted my involuntary question as I handed Bertie a large glass. He did not choose to answer but thanked me with a wide smile that disclosed perfectly formed teeth, startlingly white against his grimy, stubbled skin. As he drained half the tumbler, Holmes filled the conversational void.

"The silk scarf around the man's body was Bertie's, my good Watson. A tool of the trade, one might say."

"Now, Mr. 'Olmes, yew knows' I've been straight since you give me that break a mite back."

"We'll not argue the point now," replied the sleuth. Despite the situation of the moment, there was a fleeting spark of humor in his clear, piercing eyes. "What happened then?"

Holmes accepted a glass from me, and with a look at the body on the couch, we all drank a toast. Out of common courtesy I was forced to retrieve Burlington Bertie's glass for a refill, listening intently as I did so.

"Well, Guv, 'e was sore 'urt but 'e manages to say your nyme . . . Olmes 'e said loik it's the most important fing in the bleedin' world. So I says I knows yer and 'e slips me a five-pound note and says there's another one iffen I take 'im to yer. Well, I figgers I gotta do sumpin' wiv 'im and 'sides, maybe Doctor Watson 'ere can patch 'im up. So I gets 'im to an 'ansom and 'ere we is."

"He said nothing else on the trip here?"

Burlington Bertie shook his head. "'Twas all 'e could do to breathe, Guv. Coupla times I figgers I'd be deliverin' a bleedin' cawpse! I didn't miss by much, at that."

Holmes thought for a moment, then his features sharpened with decision. "All right, Bertie, I'm interested in the men on the dock. The assailants. One went into the water, you say."

"We can forget 'bout 'im, is me thinkin'. 'E'll surface in the Thames estuary iffen I reads the currents right. The other ain't no better. They'll 'ave to pry 'im off that pilin' and that's a fack."

"Then it is the third man." Holmes crossed to the desk, opening the cash drawer and extracting a bill. "Here is the other fiver you were promised. Now get back to the docks. The last of the assailants may still be there, and I want to know who he is and, especially, who he works for. It's worth—"

"Never mind, Mr. 'Olmes," Bertie's bull neck swiveled and he looked for a long moment towards the couch. "Whoever that cove was, 'e put up a good fight. I figgers I owes 'im somethin'. I'll try and snare that third bird for yer, and hits on the 'ouse."

The burly man made as though to depart but was arrested by a gesture from Holmes. The sleuth took a piece of the newspaper from the end table and wrapped it around the remnants of the silk scarf, which he retrieved from the wastebasket.

"Take this with you, Bertie, and dump it somewhere. For all concerned, I think it is best that you forget this incident. What about the hansom driver?"

"'E's waitin', Guv. 'Tis me sister's fella, and 'e owes me. Mum's the word."

The stairs creaked in protest at the weight of Burlington Bertie as he descended. Another of those unusual types that I encountered through my association with the world's only consulting detective. As Holmes crossed towards the couch, I heard the front door being shut and bolts going home as Billy secured our outer portal.

My friend was hunched down by the body, his eyes surveying the kinky hair, the ebony skin, and the tall and muscular body.

"Who is it, Holmes?" I inquired.

"Haven't the faintest idea."

"But he asked for you by name."

Holmes shook his head. His thin fingers extracted a seaman's wallet from the inside pocket of the man's coat with the gentle touch of a pickpocket. Opening it, he studied a passport for a brief moment and then replaced the wallet where he had found it.

"The name means nothing to me, Watson. However, the papers could be forged. There's a lot of that going on now."

Holmes's eyes seemed to attack the dead face like twin scalpels, searching for some indication, some identity clue perhaps.

"A Nubian, I would say. Possibly a Wahhabi, but I don't think so. From the Sudan, no doubt."

His fingers touched the head gently and then inspected the hairline, which was low on the forehead.

"Now this is interesting," he stated almost to himself.

Suddenly he seized the man's hands, holding them palms-down, staring intently at the nails. He rose, crossed to the mantel, and seized the clasp knife that was thrust through unanswered correspondence. Allowing letters to spill on the floor, he returned to the corpse and, it seemed to me, began to scrape at the nail of one finger. I was momentarily horrified, but then that lean face turned towards me and there was the half-smile of triumph on his lips. "I knew all was not as it seemed," he said.

Flinging the knife to the floor, Holmes crossed to the door, which he opened as I watched in silent amazement. Before he could call, our loyal page boy appeared.

"Billy," said Holmes in his clipped manner, always so evident when he was hot on the scent, "I want you to secure a carriage and go immediately to the Diogenes Club. Tell Mr. Mycroft Holmes to come immediately. Speak only to him. If he is not there, do not leave a message. Then hasten to Scotland Yard and find Inspector Alec MacDonald. He is an habitually late worker and will probably still be there. Impress upon him the importance of coming back here with you." He slipped the lad some coins. "You understand?"

Billy's impish face was aglow. "Right on, sir." Then he was gone.

Holmes closed our door with satisfaction. He regarded the body on the couch for a brief moment and then surveyed me with his slow smile.

"A bit puzzled, ol' chap?"

"To say the least. What has your brother to do with this?"

"Everything. Burlington Bertie acted in good faith. The man said 'Holmes,' and he brought him here. The corpse is but recently from Egypt. His passport told me that, and in appearance he is of the Sudan. You see, Bertie brought him to the wrong Holmes. The dead man wanted Mycroft all along."

Chapter Two

The Revelations of Mycroft

My mouth was agape, not strange for anyone associated with the great detective, and I tried to sort out some sense from the events that had descended upon us and the partial revelations to which I was now privy. Standing like a block of wood and feeling the dullard indeed, it was frustrating to view my friend, whose movements were like quicksilver. The languid theorist of Baker Street was no more; in his stead was the man of action, his splendid mind churning with possibilities, with fascinating questions that teased and provoked his completely unique talents for answers. He disappeared up the back stairs and before I could frame a question as to what was going on, he was with me again, a bed sheet in hand.

"Here, Watson, we'd best cover the inanimate object that was so recently a man. A visitor is not beyond the realm of possibility, and an unknown corpse on our couch would excite inquiry from even the ultra-sophisticated."

As I aided him in arranging the starched and pristine white over the dark body, it crossed my mind that the sheet, like a tent half-raised, would provoke speculation as well. However, Holmes had developed misdirection and half-truths to a fine art. Nevertheless, I ventured a thought if only to make my presence felt.

"Could we not remove the body to a bedroom?"

"'Twould induce a shock in Inspector Alec MacDonald from which he might never recover. The corpse breathed its last right here, and here it must remain until the ponderous sinews of the law assume lugubrious movement." Holmes paused to cock an eye at me. "A correction, ol' chap. The presence of my brother could well be a signal for a departure from the norm. Mycroft positively exudes an aura of dark and mysterious doings."

"I still don't see how he—"

"Nor do I. Though I have spotted a glimmer of light. If Billy is sufficiently persuasive, my brother should arrive in advance of our friend from Scotland Yard, which may be of aid in resolving the mechanics of this matter."

This went completely over my head, but there was one point I could comment on, and a long overdue thought at that.

"Really, Holmes, your use of that child Billy borders on the shameful. His apparent innocence could wheedle a haunch of venison from a hungry lion, whereas in truth he is more knowledgeable of the world and its foibles than one twice his age."

"And a good thing. There is an adage among circus people relative to that: 'Catch them young and break them in early.' It is the Billys of this world that are our salvation, Watson. We cannot last forever."

My response was a snort of disapproval, but I could find no rebuttal. Holmes was, above all, a pragmatist, and pragmatism is a philosophy that tends to defy argument. Our devoted page boy was a working cog in the machine that Holmes had constructed. To argue with success is a high-hurdle effort at best.

A glance of reproach at my friend found his back as a target, for he was now at the desk scrawling rapidly on foolscap.

"As soon as Billy rejoins us, these cables must go out," he commented. "The latest activities of our old adversary are now of the utmost interest."

"Our old who—?" Never had I sounded more like a Greek chorus.

Holmes's eyes were torn from his writing by astonishment.

"Sure you heard the dead man's last words?"

"About someone finding something?"

"After that. He distinctly said that it was Chu. That can mean but one thing, Watson."

"Good Lord!" I berated myself for being so obtuse. "Chu San Fu, of course. Why, the blighter actually had me kidnapped. I've good cause to remember him."

Holmes's pen was moving again when another reasonable thought insinuated itself into my mind.

"But see here, Holmes. You smashed the Oriental crime czar following that Golden Bird matter."

"Severed his tentacles is more to the point," he said, not looking up. "His opium dens, fan-tan games, houses of ill repute, and smuggling operations were closed down, one by one, through the offices of MacDonald's Limehouse Squad. But the wily Oriental is still at large, and who knows what schemes are brewing in his inscrutable mind?"

This did give me pause, and I sat by the fire to muse on the matter. If the Chinese criminal had resumed his old tricks, I would be well advised to keep a sharp eye out. Chu San Fu had lost much face through the activities of Baker Street's most illustrious resident, and the fires of revenge had to be burning fiercely within his concave chest. I sensed that the recent peaceful atmosphere of our abode was with us no more.

My friend concluded his writings with a flourish and stacked the cable messages in preparation for the page boy. With so many things as yet unexplained, my mind stubbornly settled on a matter of little consequence.

"I say, that silk sash around the deceased's body. What was it you called it?"

"A nuck. Part of Burlington Bertie's equipment. He's a smash-and-grabber, you see. Wears the sash around his middle but can remove it to cushion his fist prior to smashing a shop window to extricate what is within."

"Such a strange name."

"And I don't know the origin," admitted Holmes. "The jargon of the underworld springs from obscure genes indeed."

He was standing by the window again, his eyes intent on the street below.

"Ah, another hansom and I deduce that it is Mycroft. Billy made fast tracks. In his absence, do be a good fellow and unlock the outer door."

I was already headed for the landing when I paused.

"How do you know it is your brother?"

"For one thing, the hansom is so inconspicuous, so completely ordinary that it shrieks of Mycroft, who shuns attention. Then the driver is a prototype of everyman, devoid of expression. And, finally, the hansom is at our door and my brother's portly form is alighting with some difficulty."

Descending to the street door I felt it small wonder that my deductive powers were limited since half the time Holmes was twitting me.

Mycroft Holmes's hand was at the knocker when I opened the door. As he entered, I noted by the flickering gas jet of the neighboring street lamp that his hansom was as Holmes had described it. The driver was indeed one of those faceless types, commonplace and stolid, but Mycroft's agents all shared a considerable breadth of shoulder and a fit look. The older Holmes was shaking moisture from his hat and regarding me with his impassive gray eyes.

"Surely, my good Watson, you are the most patient of men."

"How so?" I asked, following him towards the stairs to our first-floor chambers.

"You have put up with my brother's eccentricities for all these many years with apparently no ill effects, though I would guess that the strain must be considerable at times."

"You jest," I replied automatically.

Mycroft Holmes's seemingly reluctant acceptance of my friend's activities and style of life were an old tune that did not grate through repetition.

"I do trust Sherlock has good reason for summoning me," he continued. His progress up the stairs was slow of necessity because of his corpulence and underscored by a series of puffing sounds interspersed with grunts of protest. "I almost refused his invitation, a difficult task when facing a sober and sincere lad with the light of the Grail shining from his innocent eyes."

"Don't be deceived by that innocence," I cautioned with a chuckle.

"I'm not," replied the government man.

Gaining the landing, he smoothed his coat around his sizable paunch and, with a sigh and shake of his head, entered our chambers.

I noted that Holmes had retrieved the clasp knife from the floor and that along with the unanswered correspondence, it was now back on the mantelpiece. He was never overly neat but seemed to take pains to tidy up on those rare occasions when Mycroft Holmes visited our quarters.

Removing his topcoat, which I took along with his hat, Mycroft surveyed the room with his light, watery gray eyes that habitually mirrored an introspective look and missed nothing. Nodding towards his brother with that precise and somewhat formal manner they adopted with each other, the second most powerful man in England made promptly for our largest chair.

"I am greeted with a touch of melodrama, Sherlock. A Negroid body on the couch? What will Mrs. Hudson think?"

My mouth must have dropped, and even Sherlock Holmes looked slightly startled, a fact that did not escape his brother.

"Come, now, if you wish to cover the corpse, don't let part of a hand dangle from under the sheet. I assume the cadaver is why you sent for me. Now, really, I cannot explain away dead bodies in your establishment. There is a limit to my influence."

This gentle badinage seemed unusual for the intelligence expert, habitually so noncommittal. It was not until later that I realized his lightning-sharp faculties, on a par with my friend's, had seized on the situation, had projected it, and was furiously thinking as to what position he would take. In truth it was Mycroft who was caught off guard, but not one quiver in his massive face revealed it.

"We had a visitor," stated Sherlock Holmes. "A man attacked on the waterfront and fatally wounded who was intent on reaching 'Holmes.' But he was taken to the wrong one."

The sleuth crossed to the couch, gently removing the sheet part way to reveal the face of the dead man. Mycroft regarded the dark visage impassively though I noted that his lips pursed several times.

"How much do you know?" he queried.

"Very little."

"No message? No final word?"

"Yes. But before we go into that, what is the background of this matter? I have, by chance I will admit, become involved, and curiosity is the hallmark of our family."

Mycroft's mouth had a stubborn look about it. "It's a touchy matter, Sherlock."

"Oh come now, the cat's out in any case. When I noted that the man's hair might have been artificially treated to produce that kinky look, it took me but a moment to realize that the dark skin could well be the result of a dye. Jolly good job, that. I'd like to know the formula. With my suspicions aroused I made a test, and your supposed Nubian didn't pass."

Mycroft Holmes for the first time allowed the shadow of surprise to touch him.

"Cruthers was one of my top men. His native disguise has fooled the best for years."

"But not the very best," replied Holmes, who never ranked modesty as a virtue. "The moons on his fingernails are white. If he were Negroid, they would be blue. Not a fatal oversight," he added. "I doubt if anyone else would have thought of that."

"You relieve me," said Mycroft dryly, but I sensed his words were sincere. "This whole affair may reflect rather badly on my department. I had a hunch and risked one of the best of my people in the Egyptian-Sudan theatre to check it out. Losing Cruthers makes that a costly decision."

Sherlock Holmes viewed his brother's large and sober features for a long moment, then replaced the sheet over the dead man with a shrug.

"Your agent didn't die in vain. Here's the whole story." He paused for a moment to thumb shag into the briar that he favored on occasion. A wooden match ignited the pipe, and he continued through clouds of smoke. "One of my people discovered your agent under attack on the East India docks. Two of the assailants came to a bad end."

Mycroft made as though to speak but was forestalled by a gesture from his brother.

"I've dispatched a man to check on the third. Cruthers could barely utter the name of 'Holmes' and was brought here. He just made it, but before death, he left a singular message. The exact words were: 'They . . . they found it. Chu . . . it was Chu.'"

"So," said Mycroft after a considerable pause. "I was right. At least partially. By Chu, Cruthers must have meant Chu San Fu, your arch-enemy."

"And England's," responded the sleuth grimly. Placing his pipe on the mantel, he returned to the body on the couch. "Your agent brought some tangible evidence, or my fingers play me false." Taking one of the corpse's arms, he reached up the coat sleeve. "When I first became aware of this Watson and I were not alone, so I thought it was a matter we could wait upon."

Securing a gleaming object that must have been fastened to the dead man's forearm, Holmes crossed to display it to the seated Mycroft. Standing alongside the sleuth, I surveyed the object eagerly.

"By George, it's beautiful!"

No one disagreed with me. It was a dagger in a sheath of gleaming gold. Gently, Holmes extracted the ornamental blade, undamaged, pure in design, and seemingly produced that very day by the loving hands of a master craftsman. Yet I knew instinctively that it came from a time so ancient as to be shrouded in the mists of the past.

"Egyptian, of course," murmured Mycroft Holmes.

"Without a doubt. Note the sheath festooned with the jackal's-head design. God of the dead," Holmes added, sensing my puzzlement. "The blade is of hardened gold, and see the handle with the familiar cloisonne work of glass and semiprecious stones. At the end is a lapis lazuli scarab."

"I did not know you fancied Egyptology," said his brother.

"Do recall that I once had rooms in Montague Street, just around the corner from the British Museum, with much more time on my hands than now."

"What does the dagger suggest to you?"

"Ancient, indeed, and valuable. Originally, the possession of royalty. There is a thriving trade in Egyptian antiquities, though something as valuable as this would have been gobbled up by a museum or wealthy collector long ago."

"Deduction?" persisted Mycroft.

"There are flash floods in Egypt that sometimes reveal undiscovered tombs to local grave robbers. I seem to recall a whole village whose inhabitants have been robbing the dead for over three thousand years."

"Kurna."

"Surely a record for the trade of thievery, would you not say, Watson?" Holmes had made note of my expression of complete amazement. "Of course," he continued, "a tomb not rifled by grave robbers might have been found, though none has been to this date."

Holmes retrieved his pipe from the mantel and sat in the easy chair by the desk. "So much for deductions and our brief encounter with your man Cruthers. It is now your turn."

"I'm glad I don't have to explain this to the Cabinet," was Mycroft's surprisingly frank response. "In the field of geopolitics, I find that anticipation is of inestimable value. Gentlemen, there is a spirit of unrest in that potential cauldron that is the Middle East. My agents can't pin it down but it is there, and the specter of Mohammed Ahmed Ibn Seyyid Abdullah will not permit my ignoring it."

"Mohammed who?" I exclaimed.

"The Mahdi, ol' chap," answered Holmes. "As I recall, China Gordon was one of your heroes."

"General Gordon was but one of our great losses," said Mycroft.

"Then it is a holy war you fear."

"Considering the locale, it is more in the realm of the probable than the possible. The results of the last one were staggering. It was but in '83 that the Mahdi wiped out a ten-thousand-man Egyptian army under Billy Hicks. He took Khartoum, and his followers killed Gordon. If the Sudanese prophet hadn't died in '85, we might be still mired in that mess."

Holmes was regarding his brother with that sharpness of expression so evident when his mind was engrossed. "There's more to it than that, I'll wager."

"What alerted you?" responded Mycroft quickly.

"History will no doubt brand us for colonialism, but the thin red line of the British Army has prevented periodic outbursts of bloodletting and will again. A responsibility of the Empire. There has to be more."

Mycroft Holmes surveyed both of us for a long moment.

Then he sighed.

"General Kitchener is preparing for the reconquest of the Sudan."

I stifled an exclamation. So it was to be war. The death of Gordon, a boil under the saddle blanket of Britain, was to be avenged.

Holmes was eagerly leaning forward in his chair. "Of course. With Kitchener headed south, an outbreak of religious violence on his flanks and rear would be fatal. Bismarck was right. Never fight a war on two fronts."

A discussion between the offspring of the family Holmes could prove most frustrating to the listener. Their statements were clear enough, but each seemed capable of anticipating the other's meaning, at least in part, without words. It was as though there was another channel of communication open only to those two minds.

Holmes sprang to his feet with that nervous energy that indicated he was prepared to cross the Rubicon.

"Something has intrigued you about ancient Egypt," he said, indicating the ornate dagger resting on the desk.

"Call it a sensitivity," admitted his brother. "I picture some mystical pronouncement from the past couched in the general terms used so effectively by the Greek oracle of Delphi. Something that a zealot could twist to serve his purpose. Then it would be like a fire in a wheat field. Conflagration first, with devastation as the aftermath."

Mycroft Holmes had been talking to the ceiling, but now his dreamy eyes fastened on both of us.

"Recently some unusual antika objects have appeared, and there has been talk of a strange expedition in the Valley of the Kings. I sent Cruthers to try to hire out as a digger and evidently he succeeded. Note the dagger, Sherlock. Why did he bring it back? Where did it come from? Who found it? Until now I suspected international politics, but the mention of Chu San Fu in connection with the matter sheds a different light. What interest would he have in Egyptian antiquities other than the fact that he is renowned as a collector?"

"He was a collector," was Sherlock Holmes's response. "I happen to know that his great horde of art objects has found its way to the market and has been disposed of. Which makes the rascal very solvent at the moment. Also, I consider the Chinaman to be a megalomaniac, and in my experience a zealot and a man with a deranged mind have a great deal in common. Yes, fault outlines of a pattern begin to emerge. If you do not object, I shall look into this matter."

Mycroft's ponderous shoulders registered an expressive shrug.

"Knowing you, Sherlock, you will do so whether I object or not. However, I need assistance regarding this and must conceal the activities of my own organization. The P.M. would but laugh at me. Government believes in crossing bridges only when they come to them. If you and Watson and that ragtag army at your command will give a hand, do be my guest."

"That ragtag army can be very effective at times," responded Holmes somewhat haughtily.

"Agreed," was his brother's answer. "But please, Sherlock, no practical jokes. Lord Cantlemere has not yet recovered from your outré sense of humor regarding the Mazarin Stone affair."

Mycroft Holmes's words were delivered lightly, but I sensed that he hoped his plea would be heeded. The intelligence expert was the calmest and most secure of men, as unruffled and serene as the fortress of Gibraltar, yet I felt that dealing with his mercurial brother produced a certain feeling of unrest even in him.

The older Holmes, with the air of one who has done all he can, began to rise from his chair.

"Cruthers will have to be disposed of," he stated, "and the less fuss, the better."

His considerable form moved across the room with the peculiar grace so often exhibited by those of his size. At the window he flashed some signal towards his hansom below, then turned to me with an expressive glance, which I was able to interpret. By the time I reached our ground-floor door, his driver was on the stoop carrying a large lap robe. When I indicated the stairs, he mounted them quickly and silently. By the time I reentered our chambers, the driver had the dead body swathed in the lap robe and was lifting it effortlessly from the couch.

"I'll be right down," stated Mycroft, and of a sudden the driver and his burden were gone. Helping Mycroft into his greatcoat, I attempted to brighten the somewhat grim atmosphere.

"Your driver doesn't surprise easily."

"Men who do have slow reflexes," he muttered. Before turning towards the door, he shot a keen glance at his brother. "You fell in with my Egypt theory with uncommon ease, Sherlock. Could it be that you possess information that I am not privy to?"

Holmes deflected this verbal lunge with a perfunctory parry. "Whatever I come upon will be revealed in due time."

As Mycroft grunted, I made to open the door. Hearing footfalls on the stairs, I wondered if the silent driver was returning, but it was Billy on the landing and at his heels was the dour face of Inspector MacDonald. As I stood aside, the policeman caught sight of Mycroft Holmes.

"Good evening, sir," he stammered in surprise. Then his natural instincts took over. "Would that be your hansom at the curb, sir?"

A nod was his answer.

"Well, your driver is placing a most peculiar object within, and—"

"I must leave," interrupted Mycroft Holmes, "since I'm due in Whitehall now. Possibly the Inspector would like a drink, Watson, it being brisk without."

"Thank you, no," said MacDonald, a puzzled expression on his long face. "Not while I'm on duty, sir."

"My point exactly," said the intelligence expert. "Do enjoy a libation, MacDonald."

Understanding forced itself onto the Scot's face as Mycroft Holmes, with a nod to his brother and myself, made his exit.

"Well, if that's the way it is, I wouldn't mind a wee drop, Doctor."

He removed his hat and coat as I crossed to the sideboard.

"I was catching up with some paperwork, Mr. Holmes, but your lad stayed right there till I came with him. 'Tis glad I am that I'll never have to question him officially, for I could nae get a word from him."

Holmes's thin face brightened. He took great pride in Billy.

"I gather there be a spot of trouble, Mr. Holmes," persisted the Inspector, accepting a glass from me with a look of gratitude.

"Potentially," replied the great sleuth, "though there are fewer official complexities than I had anticipated."

There was a wise look in MacDonald's eyes, and instinctively his gaze strayed to the door through which the elder Holmes had disappeared.

"It's our old acquaintance, Chu San Fu, Mr. Mac. He might be throwing his hat in the ring again."

MacDonald's tumbler came down on the end table forcibly enough to make me wince.

"Not that again. 'Twas hard enough to chop the beggar down the last time. Though it did get simpler towards the end."

There was a look of satisfaction about Holmes. "I wondered about that. Do fill me in."

"Well, sir, the Limehouse Squad just happened to get a complete list of the Chinaman's business outlets, associates—a blueprint of his organization. But you know all about that." The Aberdeenian underlined the "you," a tinge of irony in his voice and a rare trace of humor in his expression. "So we closed him down, bit by bit. He'll nae set up shop in England again and that's a fact."

"You mentioned the climax of this extensive project," prompted Holmes.

"Chu San Fu seemed irrational. Had his followers resisting arrest. Twice there were shooting scrapes. 'Twas like he was making it easy for us."

Holmes's eyes shifted to mine. "An interesting pattern for a doctor, Watson?"

"Not unusual," I replied. "A megalomaniac, his grandiose delusions shattered, totters on the brink."

"If you mean he was barmy, I'll go for that," said MacDonald. "We never could convict him personally. He was too well covered. But we put him out of business, for sure."

"At least for the time," commented Holmes, and there was a chilling note to his words. "How are your sources on art objects, Inspector?"

"Safes and Lofts keeps an eye out. We've got a pretty good line on the lenders' shops that pick up the under-the-table stuff, along with the active fences."

"I had in mind the legal trade. Word reaches me that Chu San Fu's treasure trove has been sold. The market is positively glutted, for he had one of the great collections of the world."

"'Twas above board, Mr. Holmes. We could do nothing about that."

"Indeed, no. But it is my thought that, despite the fact that you have dried up all his sources of income, he must be well supplied with coin of the realm."

"From the sale of his collection." There was a wary look about the Inspector. "It's your feeling that he's getting ready for something new?"

"It does seem possible. I assume the Oriental is still in London?"

"Aye, sir. We may have written him off as a has-been on our books at the Yard, but we haven't forgotten him."

"Excellent," said Holmes, rising to his feet. He must have rung the buzzer to our downstairs landing, for there was a gentle tap on the door. "I'm activating some of my sources, and it might be well, Mr. Mac, if we give the Chinaman a long, hard, second look."

As I secured the Inspector's hat and coat, he evidenced an expression of disappointment. "Would there be anything else you'd like to suggest, Mr. Holmes?"

The sleuth chose to be frank. "I could din your ears with conjecture, but it's hard evidence you're needing, is it not?"

MacDonald shrugged as Holmes opened the door.

"We all have our ways," he said, and on this philosophical note he departed.

"A moment, Bill," exclaimed Holmes crossing to the desk to secure the pages of foolscap he had written on earlier. "After you show the Inspector out, do see that these get off, will you?"

Passing the boy some coins, Holmes closed the door and began to rub his hands together in a satisfied manner.

"My dear Watson, we have had a fulsome evening, have we not?"

I had to agree with him there.

In truth, there was a feeling of familiar comfort in that the mood of our establishment was again normal. The wheels were spinning and at a rapid rate.

Chapter Three

Another Puzzle

The following morning I rose quite early for me, my mind churning with the possibility of another outbreak of violence similar to the one that had claimed the heroic General Gordon.

Holmes and I breakfasted together but he was preoccupied, and experience cautioned me that it was useless to try to rouse him from his thoughts. The rain was still with us, and since I had no medical calls on my calendar, The Lancet claimed my attention for a time. I noted that my friend spent some time inspecting the golden dagger that had come our way the night before and then, wearying of it, had crossed to the window to gaze at the dreary scene outside.

The sheaf of cables that had been sent the previous evening meant that Holmes had initiated certain inquiries and now, while awaiting responses, he was going over the matter of the departed agent, Cruthers, the dagger, and the fears expressed by his brother. I rather hoped that he had plenty to think about since, as readers of my words know, he was not of a patient nature.

As my head rose to survey the silhouette of the great detective, it was immediately obvious that matters had taken an unexpected turn. His eyes, which had been viewing the outside scene in a moody manner, were now fastened on an area immediately below his vantage point, and his whipcord frame leaned forward slightly. On occasion, he did bear a remarkable resemblance to a predatory bird about to swoop.

"Ah ha, Watson! What have we here? A carriage at the curb. A gentleman descending from it, for his clothes are of Saville Row. Eureka! He is hastening to our very door. Considering the state of the weather and the resultant lack of traffic, I would say this indicates a matter requiring the attention of certain unique talents. That is the way you put it in those stories you write, is it not?"

I was prompted to remind him that those stories, which he oft-times accused me of foisting on a patient reading public, were but recountings, devoid of form or content without his actions. But Holmes's eyes were sparkling and he was rubbing his hands together like a gleeful moneylender. I did not wish to intrude on his happy anticipation, but my native practicality took hold.

"See here, Holmes, you do have that Mid East matter to consider."

"Not until more information comes our way. Meanwhile we have a man who has come through the rain on this wearisome day, and we cannot deny him an audience."

Here we go again, I thought. Holmes, self-appointed protector of all in need on three continents, because he hated a wasted moment and his ego could not let him pass a puzzle by.

While Billy announced our visitor and Holmes signified that he should be shown up, it occurred to me that my smug attitude would get a justified comeuppance if the man turned out to be a solicitor for church funds but such was not the case.

Mr. Clyde Deets of Mayswood, as he was announced, was well turned out indeed, from his lucent top hat and black frock coat with white waistcoat down to his patent-leather shoes. I noted, as he deposited his hat and gloves on our occasional table while greeting Holmes, that his hair was thinning. The flesh on his face was pale, even after braving the wind outside, but firm. He had a small moustache somewhat military in its cut. As he seated himself in the basket chair indicated by Holmes, he brushed some droplets of moisture from his black satin cravat. The word "foppish" came to my mind, but the square cut of his shoulders with the suggestion of bunched muscles caused me to amend it to "meticulous." I liked to have such little observations at hand should Holmes ask my opinion, an infrequent occurrence.

"There are cigars in the coal scuttle," said the consulting detective with a gesture of his hand.

Deets suppressed surprise at the eccentric arrangements in our quarters. I hoped Holmes would not secure shag from the Persian slipper.

"Thank you, no, Mr. Holmes." He seemed ill at ease. "I feel most fortunate in finding you in your lodgings," he added lamely as his eyes questioningly swiveled towards me.

"This is my associate, Doctor Watson. His discretion is beyond question, and he is quite indispensable to my investigations."

While Holmes had used these words, or similar ones, many times through the years, they always prompted a glow of pride, though I had my own ideas as regards their truth. Suddenly, a thought surprised me. Did Holmes really believe this?

It was not apparent to me whether Deets resented my presence or not. "We had a bit of unpleasantness at the family home last night. Mayswood, you know."

I didn't. Holmes gave no indication as to whether he shared my ignorance or not. There was an awkward pause, then Deets continued: "Felt some professional help was required, so I dashed over here first thing. Came right to the best, you see."

I noted Holmes's eyebrows escalating slightly, and there was an air of mild amusement about him.

"Not immediately to our door, Mr. Deets. There is a smudge of dusty ash on your topper that is indigenous to our railway system, and surely I note a return ticket in your waistcoat pocket. Then there is some mud on your shoes, inevitable considering the weather, and judging by the color of the soil, I would venture the guess that you went from the railway station to an address in the Hyde Park vicinity."

Deets's eyes had widened and there was that look, half amazement and half apprehension, that I had seen so many times before.

"Mayswood is down Surrey way, Mr. Holmes, and I did toddle over to the home of my solicitor before coming here. I say, you are a bit of a crackerjack, are you not? Lawyer Simpson lives in Hyde Park for a fact. Old fellow thought I should contact the police, but the idea of a squad of constables descending on the ménage didn't fill me with enthusiasm. Felt if you might be persuaded to lend a hand, things would be more discreet."

"Let us consider what this unpleasantness involves."

I shuddered in my mind at what Holmes's reaction might be to a tale of domestic strife, but Deets did better than that.

"Fact is, Mr. Holmes, we got burgled, or jolly well would have but for happy chance."

Once started, our visitor swung into his tale with commendable alacrity, and he presented it with a minimum of extraneous verbiage, a fact that I knew weighed well with Holmes.

"Wife's upcountry visiting her sister. Just me in the house along with the staff. Had planned on running over to the Turf Club for dinner and whist. A short distance from Mayswood the carriage horse threw a shoe, so we came back, you see, to hitch up another. Found I'd left my cigarettes, and while Alfred was changing horses, went back inside to locate my case. Rather fancy it. Lucky, you see. Turned a bullet once and saved my life, but that's another story. Anyway, I went upstairs with Dooley, the butler, on my heels. Old fellow brushed against a shield on the wall, and it fell with a fearful clatter. Then we heard another sound above and rushed up. We have an upstairs sitting room. Used to be a sort of art gallery. Father was keen on oils. In any case, found the French windows wide open. Rain blowing in. Someone had been there all right, but not a sign of the beggar."

Deets paused for a breath and his delivery slowed down. It was then I gave him credit for more sense than I had previously.

"Now, I wouldn't be calling on Mr. Sherlock Holmes if that was the whole story. Fact is, can't figure how the would-be robber got there. Considering the time between my leaving Mayswood and my return, the blighter couldn't have been in the house more than five minutes. A spot sooner and Dooley and I might have seen him. Now, there's a balcony outside the gallery. French windows open onto it. But it's thirty feet from the ground it it's an inch. Flat marble walls, Mr. Holmes. No handholds and no convenient ivy. No tree close by, either."

At the beginning of Deets's story, Holmes's mood had been one of concealed boredom, but his attention was caught now and he regarded our visitor with that keen glance that indicated the gears of his mind were meshed and moving.

"You assume the uninvited visitor gained access to the balcony?"

Deets had evidently anticipated this line of thought. "There was no other way for him to enter the room. All of the downstairs windows at Mayswood are barred. Doors were all locked and bolted. Dooley had checked them on my departure. If you would view the premises I think you would agree with me that entry from the ground floor was impossible. You're the detective, but from where I sit, the thief had to gain access to the house via the balcony. For the life of me, I can't see how. He didn't use a ladder, for Dooley and I rushed right out and there was no sign of anything like that. Actually," he continued after a thoughtful moment, "how he got away so fast is as mystifying as how he entered! No sign of anyone, and yet we'd jolly well heard him while we were on the stairs. Chap just vanished!"

"Well," said Holmes, and there was relish in his manner, "you have presented an intriguing problem. A viewing of the scene is called for, naturally. But first, some questions that might cast light on the matter. Your burglar, if that is what he was, is evidently skilled. Premature assumptions are subject to error, but this does not seem like a common smash-and-grabber after the family plate. About the staff, how many in residence?"

"Dooley, of course. We have a male cook, Frenchman; two inside maids. They all live in the main house. The gardener and grooms live by the stables in quarters. Alfred, our coachman, lives outside as well."

Holmes rose and selected the straight pipe he sometimes fancied. With it, he crossed to the Persian slipper containing his shag.

"You mentioned flat marble walls." Our client's round and quite youthful face creased in a grin and he fingered his moustache.

"Fact is, Mayswood's a bit of a fortress. Not by intent. Just sort of happened that way. White marble all round, which is rather the style down our way. We've considerable grounds, but no trees close to the house. On a bright moonlit night, place looks a bit like a Greek temple. Father—gone now—was something of an art fancier. He had the lower windows barred. Not that his collection was a famous one. Just an idea he had, you see."

Holmes, puffing out clouds of smoke, had an almost benign expression on his hawk-like face. The more our visitor made the entry of the burglar seem impossible, the better he liked the whole matter. At that moment I would have wagered five against one that he was thinking: "Ah ha! This may turn into a two-pipe problem after all."

My friend leaned one arm against the mantel, peering down at Deets, his eyes alight.

"Your very words lead us to what may be the key question. What was this elusive burglar after?"

Both of Deets's hands turned palms up as though disclaiming any knowledge whatsoever. "There's the rub, Mr. Holmes. Oh, there're some pieces of value. One does collect things. But the wife's jewels, what she didn't take with her, are safely in the box at the County and Suburban. I keep a spot of currency on hand but it's no great thing. Any articles of value he may have fancied would not have been easy to leave with. Furniture, tapestries, and such. There is the family plate, but it's rather heavy stuff and a man would have some trouble lugging enough to make it worth his while."

"No papers? Documents? Bonds?" queried Holmes.

"Some deeds, but nothing that is convertible." Deets had another thought. "Then there is this, Mr. Holmes: How's this chap going to get away with anything at all? He couldn't dump objects off the balcony. A bit noisy, to say the least. If he tried to get out via the ground floor, he could unbolt the doors all right, but it still takes a key to open them."

"That would present no problem to an accomplished swag man," replied Holmes. "However, with four persons on the premises, to say nothing of the outside help, I agree that it would be a risky matter."

"I'm sorry to be the squirrel with such a hard nut, Mr. Holmes," said our visitor apologetically.

A faint smile teased the corners of Holmes's mouth. "If the solution was simple, you would have no need of me."

Surprise infiltrated Deets's eyes, to be replaced by the imp of humor. It crossed my mind that this outgoing type might well have a perspicacity that he took pains to conceal.

"For a fact," he replied agreeably. Then came a sudden thought. "You don't suppose the rascal—you don't think he came to the wrong house?"

"A possibility, though I choose to ignore it. For no concrete reason. Just mark it down to my feeling for such things."

There was a considerable pause as Holmes, and Deets as well, mused on the matter.

"What would you have me do?" queried the sleuth finally. "I assume, from your immediacy on the scene, that nothing was taken."

A negative shake of the head was his answer.

"Then the tracing of stolen goods is ruled out. What we have is a burglar, assumed, whose plan is frustrated by your opportune return to the scene. Means of entry and, indeed, exit; are unknown." My friend turned towards Deets suddenly and employed a little trick I had seen him use before. "You realize, of course, that if he does not try again there is little chance of ferreting him out."

Our client, for I considered him as such now, nodded, and there was a seriousness about him.

"I'm rather intrigued by puzzles myself. I want to know how this chap got in and got out so I can make sure it doesn't happen again. I'm willing to pay and pay well for that information." Possibly he didn't feel this explanation was in sufficient detail, though it made sense to me. In any case, after a short pause he continued. "I did mention the fortress aspects of Mayswood. I guess I never considered it before, but it does provide a certain peace of mind."

"Temporarily dispelled by last night's occurrence," said Holmes. "Your problem is intriguing enough for Watson and myself to come down to Surrey and look round. I assume it is raining as hard there as here, so our visit need not be made immediately. Any clues on the outside of the house have certainly been washed away."

"Dooley and I took a turn around the grounds with lamps last night, Mr. Holmes. Not with your expertise, of course. It was a quagmire. I fancy the fellow could have worn hob-nail boots and no marks would have remained."

Deets's businesslike approach to the matter seemed to please Holmes. He returned to his favorite armchair and sat, his hands crossed in his lap, gazing at the man. There was another pause.

"I wish," said Holmes rather grudgingly, "that there was some motive for your nocturnal visitor."

"So do I, Mr. Holmes," Deets said frankly, meeting the sleuth's intense eyes squarely.

Holmes finally seemed satisfied. "All right, Mr. Deets, we'll come down tomorrow. If the weather continues foul, no matter. Watson and I will be there."

"For lunch, perhaps?"

"Agreed. In the interim, I assume your household is on the alert?"

Deets's smile had an infectious quality. "When I left, Gaston, our chef, was busy sharpening a rather alarming carving knife. The butler, Dooley, is an old Crimean man and rather intrigued by the prospect of action. I noted several pokers were missing, so I suspect the housemaids are prepared as well. Mayswood is a bit of an armed camp."

"So much the better," commented Holmes casually. "But let's not have a poor delivery man set upon by mistake."

On this lighter note, Clyde Deets made his departure.

I waited, with some difficulty, until his footfalls faded on the stairs.

"Now see here, Holmes," I exploded, "I know this presents an enticing pattern. Mysterious intruder with an obscure motive who seemingly materializes and then promptly vanishes. All the elements that you love so well. But there is that matter that Mycroft brought to your attention."

"And fate. Burlington Bertie bringing the dying man here was what really got us involved."

"You're splitting hairs. The fact is that the Empire could be in difficulties."

"True," he admitted. "Well, this case of the mysterious intruder seems a minor one that we may be able to dispose of in short order."

This had to satisfy, and I turned to the word-squares of the day. Those beguiling combinations had long ago presented a most nagging challenge until I realized that I possessed a secret weapon. After a lengthy passage of time, Holmes broke in on my concentration.

"You know, ol' fellow, relative to the Surrey matter, I cannot rid myself of the feeling that all has not been said. If the intruder made his entry and escape, a fact that we must assume or there is no case, we shall find out how. What intrigues me no end is the why."

"We certainly don't know that," I replied, my mind elsewhere.

"But I'm not sure that the same can be said for Mr. Deets."

"He seemed most cooperative."

"Unusually so. His recreation of the event was delightfully to the point. I could wish witnesses in court were as concise. But there is the question of his cigarette case."

I lowered my paper. "You've lost me, Holmes."

"He went upstairs at Mayswood for his cigarette case that had once turned a bullet and saved his life. Now I just wonder, Watson, who fired the bullet?"

Chapter Four

The Bizarre Intruder

It was shortly thereafter that Holmes departed the premises. He stated that there were some investigations regarding our adventure of the previous evening that he wanted to tend to and that he might even inquire into Mr. Clyde Deets. I made a move to accompany him but he would have none of it, stating that his efforts would be but contact work and did not require my always-welcome assistance.

I turned my hand to my case history again but could make little progress. There was the guilty thought that my friend was braving the elements while I remained cozy and warm within. But I forced myself to brand this as fruitless castigation. The number of Holmes's available contacts, regarding all sorts of information, was enormous. It seemed reasonable that some of them would speak to him more freely without his biographer in attendance.

At loose ends, I returned to my word-squares.^* Holmes returned in the late afternoon. As he shook moisture from his coat, I busied myself with the tantalus and gasogene and we sat before the fire and clinked glasses.

^*Also called "word blocks," they existed in England in the 19^thcentury. In 1913 the first crossword puzzles appeared in publications and by 1920 achieved the immense popularity they enjoy today.

"A friend at the British Museum did not prove informative, ol' fellow, though when I described the gold dagger something struck him. I was able to draw for him that scroll-like design on its blade, and he identified it as a cartouche."

As my eyebrows elevated, Holmes continued. "A seal of a royal personage. Now, to Deets. With your frugal sense, Watson, you might be happy to learn that Clyde Deets of Surrey is solvent and runs a most respectable business. Moved to that area around five years ago. Father was a recluse and died shortly thereafter. But here's a puzzle: prior to their arrival at Mayswood, nothing is known of Deets, père or fils. Complete dead end as regards family history and origin. Rather singular, but then not all our clients date back to the Norman Conquest."

"In other words—" I began.

"In other words, I discovered very little and got rather wet doing it. Your expertise with the decanter is of medicinal assistance. Now tell me of your day."

"My dead end is a six-letter space in the word blocks," I said, reaching for the paper. "State of unrest—reversed."

As Holmes's eyes narrowed, I added: "Third letter might be 't'."

"Try 'citceh,' which is 'hectic' reversed."

I reached for my pencil with some excitement. "This might open up a number of things. Associate in ten letters, third letter 'c' if 'citceh' is right."

"Surely easy for you, Watson. 'Accomplice.'"

"It fits. Drainage in five, second letter being 'i'."

"Ditch. Err— Watson—"

I overrode him. "Discordant in nine. Third letter 'c'."

"Cacophony. My dear chap—"

"Uncanny in five. Second letter 'e'."

"Eerie."

"Holmes, you've done it. I believe I can—"

My voice dwindled away as I found my friend regarding me with a strange look, akin to wonderment.

"Watson, I've been trying to mention that there is an amazing quality about you. Intuitive, perhaps, or just the ability to say the right thing at the right time. You are a treasure, indeed!"

Since his remark struck me dumb, I could but regard him with a slack jaw. The wonderment faded from his eyes to be replaced with that far-away look, a sure sign that his massive intellect was working in high gear.

"'Hectic' was the word, but the instruction 'reverse' suggested a key. Our client's name is Deets. Not a common name but nothing unusual either. Uninteresting might be the best description. But reverse it and you have 'Steed,' which opens up fascinating possibilities."

Holmes was on his feet making a beeline for the bookcase, from which he extracted the 'S' file. There was a tight smile on his face as he leafed through pages. "Sansbey, the poisoner . . . interesting case, that. . . . Slagar, the Serbian strangler. Never convicted. Sloppy police work there. . . . Ah! Here we are! Maurice Steed-Spaulding, British Army, Retired. I'll try to dredge through the chaff . . . graduated Richmond—"

"Army, you say?" I burst out with a sudden remembrance. "Captain Spaulding, the African explorer!"

"Leading expert on Egypt. Hmmmm. . . ."

"Oh, was he an Egyptologist? Don't know why I associated the chap with Africa."

Holmes's face rose from the file briefly. "My dear Watson, Egypt is in Africa."

"Oh. So it is."

Momentarily nonplussed, I watched Holmes's eyes race through a page before turning to another.

"Wasn't mixed up with that Piazzi Smythe chap, was he? You recall the theory of the Pyramid Inch and the Great Pyramid."

"Piazzi Smythe was a pyramidologist, Watson, and the theory of the Pyramid Inch was disproved. Steed-Spaulding was a student of cultures and of religions, as well. Wrote two books on the latter. The Coptics of Egypt and Islam Comes to Egypt. Both considered monumental, though the last one did receive adverse criticism. He traced the rise of Mohammedanism in Egypt beginning with the Arab invasion of 639 and laid emphasis on the tolerance of the Islamics towards Jews and Christians as opposed to the attitude of Christianity during that period."

His eyes rose from the book, sparkling with interest "It's becoming crystal clear, Watson. Spaulding took the first half of his hyphenated name, reversed it, and used it on coming to Surrey."

"I say, Holmes, is this not wild conjecture?"

"Conjecture, yes, but not so wild. Spaulding was brought to my attention . . . let's see, I have a note on that." He regarded the file again and then snapped it shut. "It was June of '94. Sir Randolph Rapp expressed some puzzlement regarding the gentleman, and I did a little investigation for him. Spaulding's expedition to Abydos in Upper Egypt and his first expedition into the Sudan were considered the coups of his time. He was involved in a second trip to the Sudan that he abandoned halfway, and he returned to England and took up the raising of dogs in Stoke Newington. There was, in '90, an attempted robbery of his estate. Matter was hushed up, but I'll wager that is when our client's cigarette case saved his life. Following the robbery, Spaulding sold out and dropped from sight. Five years back that was, and you will note that the Deets's arrived in Surrey at that time."

"It fits. I'll give you that," I admitted. Another thought crossed my mind. "If Rapp brought up the matter of the explorer and author in '94, that must have been right after your visit to the Khalifa at Khartoum."

I had always been tantalized by the real reason for Holmes's journey to Mecca and then to the Sudan, but he brushed aside my bait quickly.

"Sir Randolph Rapp was very interested in Captain Spaulding, as I am right now. It's the matter of the Sacred Sword, you see."

I sighed. "Please, Holmes, can we run that last bit over again."

My friend smiled, replaced the "S" file in the bookshelf, and took his pipe from the mantel. "In the folklore of Arabia, it is said that the sword of the prophet Mohammed still exists, secreted away in some subterranean crypt in an unknown oasis. The unsheathing of the Sacred Sword is to signal the rising of the followers of the Crescent, who are then to drive the infidels into the sea."

"A holy war," I exclaimed, "in keeping with what Mycroft fears. But what has the late Captain Spaulding to do with that?"

"You know that Rapp, in his line of work, picks up a lot of rumors and is a great believer that myths and folktales have a basis in fact. Somehow he caught wind of the whisper that an Arabian chieftain feared that the Sacred Sword would be used as a device to lead his people to annihilation, a bloodbath. He supposedly gave the sword to Captain Spaulding, considered a true friend of the Islamics, despite the fact that he was Christian. Spaulding was to remove the weapon to England until such time as it could be returned without being an instrument to incite and inflame."

I was shaking my head and should have known better.

"That sounds a bit far-fetched, Holmes."

"A moment. The attempted robbery at the Spauldings' dwelling in Stoke Newington may have been an attempt to secure the sword entrusted to the Captain. Whatever, it got their wind up and they changed their residence posthaste and their name as well."

Holmes puffed on his pipe furiously for a moment.

"We can dissect the matter piecemeal, ol' chap, but we're rather flogging a dead horse. The recent intruder at the Spauldings' home in Surrey was not a thief to my mind at all. To use the language of the ha'penny dreadfuls, he was 'casing the joint.'"

"Attempting to find out where the sword was hidden," I said suddenly.

"Now you're on the track." Holmes's voice held a tone of approval. "Consider Deets's, nee Spaulding's, reaction. He knew what the intruder was doing there. Though nothing was taken, he still enlisted our aid in hopes of finding out how to forestall a future attempt. He might well have called in the police, but I think the prospect of Scotland Yard on the scene rattled him. Suppose they located the hiding place of the sword?"

I was being drawn to Holmes's idea in spite of myself and tried to use the logic that he had made famous.

"All right, let us say that your brother's fear of an uprising is well-founded. We have proof, by virtue of the dead Cruthers, that a tomb could well play a part. The dagger he brought is tangible—I can see it, and his dying words certainly tie in Chu San Fu to the matter."

"Who else has the resources and the overbearing ego to involve himself in such a wild scheme?"

"But where does that leave this Sacred Sword idea?"

"We have been introduced to two situations, but do not place them in opposition to each other, ol' boy. They both face towards the Mid East, specifically Egypt. Let us consider them with an intellectual togetherness."

"You feel the Sword is part of Chu's plot?"

Holmes was knocking out his pipe on the stones of the fireplace.

"The wily old dog is a bit of a showman, you know. With the Sacred Sword, he might well set himself up as a latter-day prophet, a leader of Islamics throughout the world."

"But Holmes, it is just an inanimate object."

"What makes sense or follows the laws of logic is not always important, Watson. It is what people believe. I can see the idea of a horde of nomadic horsemen surging forth from the desert and elsewhere finds no fertile soil in your mind. But they came before, you know. Not just under the Mahdi. At one time they flooded into France."

"The Battle of Tours?"

"More recently, the history of Europe for a half century was dictated by the alarming thought that the Grand Army of the Republic might rise again. The shadow of 'Le Petit Corporal' had our statesmen quivering even after Waterloo and his subsequent death on St. Helena. Presumably we live in an age of enlightenment, but should you turn up with a sword named 'Excalibur' and prove that it was the weapon of the great Arthur of legend, I imagine you could stir up quite an uprising. Certainly among the superstitious and clannish Cornish and others as well."

The thought of my waving a great two-handed blade and leading a horde to conquest and pillage had to introduce the dwarf of derision to my manner with the midget of mischievous merriment trodding on his heels. The latter increased in stature as the chuckle on my lips grew into a chortle and then blossomed to a full guffaw. It was so ridiculous, but then the truth of Holmes's words regarding the Corsican shouldered my laughter aside. As my face sobered and grim lines appeared, Holmes surveyed me with his wise eyes.

"Now I believe I shall ring for Mrs. Hudson and request two dinners. Tomorrow may be an important day in our lives."

I could but agree. Men can be stirred to the marrow when deep-seated loyalties or hostilities are aroused. Holmes had once discoursed at length on the matter of racial memory. I had not followed him at the time, but it was making more sense now.

It was during our evening repast that the first messages arrived. Holmes quite rightly assumed that they were in response to his cables of the night before and relegated them to the desk until we had enjoyed an after-dinner cigar together.

Then, with a sigh, he seated himself to go over the communications. The acquiring of information through the knowledge or efforts of others was onerous to Holmes. In the early days it was standard procedure for us to be on the scene of the crime in jig time and make our own conclusions. Or rather, have Holmes make his. But now the scope of the sleuth's activities had widened and it would have been impractical indeed not to take advantage of the far-flung web of contacts and sources that he had taken such pains to weave.

I was in the dark as to what progress, if any, was being made. Possibly the messages were confirmations of a time and meeting place with some associate, or perhaps an answer to a direct question posed by Holmes to a highly qualified source. I was mentally framing a query that might prompt a revealing remark from him when there was a gentle tap on the door.

"Come in, Billy," said Holmes.

The page boy did so but there was no cable or envelope in his hand.

"It's a box, Mr. 'Olmes. Two deliverymen brung it. It's fer Mr. Mycroft 'Olmes, sir. Care of Mr. Sherlock 'Olmes, this address."

"Now that's strange. Mycroft made no mention of this, and surely he has any number of working addresses. Well, best we have a look at it."

"Rather big, sir."

"Oh," said Holmes, springing to his feet. "Come, Watson, and let us see what object comes to Mycroft via our dwelling."

Within the front door was a crate easily five feet long by three feet in width. I glanced at Holmes blankly and drew a responsive shrug. Holmes positioned himself at one end of the box, and with Billy's help I lifted the other end and we maneuvered it up the stairs and into our sitting room. Happily it was not of a great weight, and we had it lying adjacent to the fireplace in short order.

As Billy departed from the room, my friend was surveying the unexpected object with curiosity, which was heightened by the fact that one of the slats of the packing case was obviously loose.

For a moment Holmes waged an inner struggle and then lost it, crossing to secure the clasp knife, though this time he made sure his unanswered correspondence remained neatly stacked on the mantel.

"See here, the object is earmarked for your brother," I protested.

"Agreed, but Mycroft would not deny us a peek, ol' chap."

Holmes had the loose piece of wood pried up before I could muster another objection, and by then it was too late. The knife's stout blade was working out the thin nails that secured the crate and, I blush to admit, I was helping Holmes for I, too, had caught the flash of gold in the light of the fireplace.

What was revealed was certainly unusual. It was the size of a small steamer trunk but glistened with a color unknown to commercial luggage. It was rectangular and its sides were adorned with figures and objects that were strange to me. Finally, an obvious thought forced itself upon me.

"Holmes, if this is of gold, how did we lift it so easily?"

My friend tapped the top of the box with his knuckles.

"Made of wood, I'd say, Watson, and overlaid with sheet gold. A backing of plaster, perhaps."

He had his pocket glass in hand now.

"The ornamental work marks its origin. Egyptian without a doubt. Note the figures, male and female."

"The males seem to wear a kilt type of skirt."

"With the navels showing in each case," replied Holmes. "I believe that is a mark of a certain period in Egyptian art but don't recall which one. See the plethora of signs? Cobras, birds, and this one, resembling our infinity sign, is the life symbol of the Egyptians."

"Whatever do you suppose is inside?"

"That tantalizing thought must remain unanswered, ol' fellow, for we seem denied even a brief look-see."

The sleuth's index finger indicated silver bolts that slid through gold staples and were secured firmly by small and strange-looking locks. Evidently the top of this shiny box opened in the middle like a miniature double door. "The greater mystery is why this object is here. This is no error, for it is plainly addressed to 221B Baker Street."

Holmes stood by the mantel for a moment, his broad brow furrowed in thought, and then either he reached a decision or some new idea came to his superb mind.

"Well, I can draw no meaning from the ornamentation save that it reflects court scenes. Egypt must remain Mycroft's specialty until we learn more, and as to the contents, we can do naught but guess. Here, Watson, let's stretch this afghan over the container, for the hour grows late."

Automatically I helped Holmes cover the box, though his reason for doing this escaped me completely. Once the object was under the afghan that my friend took from our couch, a rapid gesture of warning put me on the alert. All was not as it seemed.

"Let's see," said Holmes calmly. "I'd best get these messages out of the way."

He was at the desk fiddling with papers but only with one hand. The other was signaling towards my medical bag by the cane rack and I made for it with alacrity, bringing it to Holmes at the desk. He kept up a desultory flow of conversation, like a man preparing to retire for the night, all the while removing my stethoscope.

"Stir up the fire, will you, good fellow?" he suggested, affixing the instrument to his head.

I had a poker in my hand in a moment and stirred up the logs, noting that Holmes tiptoed to the covered object and applied the stethoscope to its cover. I took pains at this point not to make undue noise and, after a moment, Holmes seemed satisfied and removed himself to the desk area where he restored my indispensable medical aid to its resting place.

"Well, Watson, shall we turn in?"

"I'm for it," I said rather loudly, and my accompanying yawn was authentic and not dumb show.

Without further ado Holmes extinguished the lights, but now I understood his suggestion regarding the fire since the flames still provided illumination in the room. Following Holmes's lead, I went towards the back stairs. My friend carefully left the door ajar and we progressed up the steps, making a bit more noise than necessary in doing so.

Before we reached the landing, Holmes had one of my arms in his steely grasp and his lips were close to my ear.

"Get your hand gun, old fellow, and tiptoe back down this way. Position yourself by the door and watch that box like a hawk. There's something in there, Watson, something alive. I'll duck round by the front stairs to the entrance door, which is not locked. When you spot it opening, you'll know I'm in place and we'll have whatever is in that Trojan horse bottled up."

Like a dark shadow Holmes was gone, and my heart was pounding as I made all speed to secure the Webley from my bedroom and inch my way back down the stairs to my station. Somehow the thought of a great Anaconda snake slithering out of the strange box kept coming to my mind and I was in a bit of a blue funk when I took position by the half-opened door and peered into our sitting room.

The box with its cover was plainly visible in the dancing light of the fireplace. I reasoned that the afghan was a device of Holmes's in case there was a peephole through which a human eye could have observed us. The thought of something human helped my nervous state until I began to wonder what form of mankind could be secreted in such a small area.

It was then I noted that our front door was silently opening. Its well-oiled hinges made no protest, for which I was grateful, and then its movement ceased. Now for the waiting.

Whatever had entered our quarters in such an outré manner must have been patient, for at least a half hour went by and my bones were aching, desirous of a change of position, which I was able to effect silently several times. Then there was a stir, and the afghan began to rise and then slide down, revealing the golden box. The entire top was rising, and I immediately realized that the bolts had been to create an illusion and that the top was actually secured from the inside. There was a lengthy pause, and then I could dimly discern two small, dark hands that lifted the top of the box. A figure rose from the interior and gently placed the lid on the floor. It was with difficulty that I suppressed an exclamation.

The black hair of this almost doll-like figure hung in two braids down the back of an oversized head that seemed wizened and not young at all as its size at first had suggested. He hopped out of the golden box agilely, landing silently with bare feet on our carpet. A flicker of the firelight revealed broad lips that were skinned back exposing small teeth, filed to a point. There was such an evil menace about the face that I shuddered. It looked like a coconut shell with features painted on it in the manner of primitive art among the aborigines of the South Pacific. But the filed teeth were shockingly real and lent a death's-head quality to this bizarre apparition. A loincloth and a child's-size rough shirt was its costume.

Standing on the floor, it seemed no more than four feet in height. Small eyes, which were flicked with yellow, searched the room, and I was careful to remain frozen at my vantage point. Finally the figure moved, or rather glided with the grace of a wild animal, and I was reminded of the quick but fluid motion of a weasel. The creature gave scant attention to the furnishings, once convinced that the room was empty, but surprised me by crossing to the bay window and, after some effort, succeeded in opening it. I could not fathom what this strange form of humanity was up to and was further bemused when it returned to the center of the room, peering at the bookshelf with a nervous glance. Then it clambered onto the chair to survey the desk top and evidently found the object of its search. The ornamental dagger that Cruthers had brought with him was plainly visible, and a tiny hand scooped it up. I thought the figure would hop down from the chair, but primitive curiosity took over and the blade was drawn from the scabbard and tested on the tongue of the creature. Then the dagger was returned to its sheath and the figure did descend to the floor as the front door swung open and the beam of a bull's-eye lantern fixed the native in its light. There was a high-pitched, tinny sound from the small throat and, dropping the Egyptian dagger, the creature shot across the room and without pause dove through the bay window!

I was in the room myself now, and as I ignited one of the lamps I heard the sound of a horse suddenly in the outer darkness. There was the lash of a whip and the hoof sounds accelerated and there was the rumble of wheels.

Holmes, by the window, was peering out, but in a moment his face turned to me with a woebegone expression.

"I've been had, Watson. Outwitted, and by a pigmy, no less."

"But Holmes," I sputtered, "what happened?"

"I should have known when the little devil opened the window. We had him cornered, but he sailed out of the window and into a wagonload of hay, which is how he intended to leave our quarters even had he not been discovered. The hay wagon is four blocks away by now, and we shall never find it. Our little friend has made a clean getaway, but he didn't take what he was after. We can console ourselves with that."

"He was after the dagger, of course. Why?"

"Possibly that cartouche reveals something of its point of origin. Evidently, Chu San Fu doesn't want the ancient blade in our possession."

"Ah, then this pigmy was sent by the Chinaman?"

"You know Chu's methods, Watson. He employs dacoits, Lascars, and other unusual types with strange aptitudes. I'll give him credit for a most ingenious scheme of gaining entry here."

Holmes was closing the bay window as he spoke. "Fortunately, there was not enough sound to rouse the household. Best we not mention a barefooted pigmy to Mrs. Hudson, for she might not sleep soundly for a week."

His remark brought an alarming thought into focus in my mind.

"If the pigmy is one of Chu San Fu's bizarre entourage, then the Oriental must know of your involvement."

"It would seem so, Watson. I'll have the golden box taken to Mycroft tomorrow. Possibly it will be informative to him, though I doubt it. Just a device to get the little devil in here." Locking the front door, he made for the bedroom stairs again. "I'll also have the house watched during our absence."

"Then tomorrow it is off to Surrey?"

"Why not? We may pick up the trail of the insidious Chu San Fu quicker there than here in London."

"A moment, Holmes. This chap, Deets—or Spaulding—"

"For the time, let us refer to him by his assumed name, Deets."

"Very good. But I don't recall his giving you directions."

"Mayswood, the name of his residence, was enough, my good Watson."

And on this puzzling note, Holmes retired to his bedroom.

With my lights extinguished for the night, a myriad of thoughts tried to march down the corridors of my mind. Long experience with the affairs of Sherlock Holmes allowed me to erect roadblocks, and sleep was not long in coming. However, it was invaded by filmy figures spawned from the imagination. Wild horsemen thundered over an endless sea of sand with pyramid shapes in the background sharply defined by a blazing sun. Each nomad had sharply filed teeth and was swinging a huge, curved, scimitar-shaped weapon. Heads will roll, I thought before sinking into total oblivion.

Chapter Five

Surrey Interlude

Mid-morning on the following day found Holmes and myself at Waterloo Station where the sleuth purchased two tickets to Litchfield.

Our train journey to Surrey was uneventful. During most of it my friend leaned back in his seat with his hat pulled over his eyes, his chin sunk on his chest and his long legs stretched out before him. He might have been catnapping, or his brain could just as easily have been churning. I guessed that neither was the case and that he was, instead, disassociating himself from our discussion with his brother and the events of the previous evening so that he could approach the Deets mansion and its problems with a clear mind. It was Holmes's contention that a brain free of supposition and unclouded by half-truths was like an unused photographic plate, ready to take impressions.

A four-wheeler awaited our arrival at the station and whisked us into the countryside. The rain had passed through the area on its way to London and the greens were greener because of it. A spring sun projected lukewarm rays to brighten the scene, and everywhere was a soft, almost melodious sound as swollen rivulets attempted to drain off the surface water that had accumulated during the torrents of the past few days.

As we wound through curved lanes bordered by hedges and trees eagerly displaying the first new growth of the season, there was the musty but not unpleasant odor of wet leaves and moist earth. Into these tranquil surroundings a seeming contradiction sprang to my mind and traveled to my lips.

"Did Deets mention why he lived down country?"

"It would seem your interest in the racing world is confined to the equines that you wager on, ol' fellow."

I admitted as much.

"But they had to come from somewhere. Mayswood is well known as a stud farm."

"By Jove, I have heard of it."

"But did not associate it with our client. No matter. Possibly you can secure some hot tips on potential winners of the future."

Our road now left the trees and progressed up a slope towards an imposing marble building, much as Deets had described it. I noted a considerable cluster of buildings in the rear, obviously stables, and white rail fences that subdivided lush meadowland. In one area there were several jumps, and everywhere there was the neat and clipped white-on-green one would expect at a breeding farm.

As we reached the crest of the incline, our carriage swept round the imposing house and we found Clyde—I forced myself to think of him as Deets—speaking to two gillies in the stable area. He crossed towards us immediately, a smile creasing his firm face.

"I trust your journey was pleasant, gentlemen."

"Quite," replied Holmes.

His busy eyes were absorbing the scene as were mine. A number of horses were being released to follow familiar paths towards pastures. Some of the animals were mature, powerful beasts given to demonstrate their fit condition with leaps and lashing feet as they gained momentum and streaked into the fenced areas that surrounded the establishment.

Our host, in riding trousers and cavalry boots with an open shirt, was a far cry from the dandy of the previous day. As he led us toward the mansion house, I could not suppress a question.

"Any potential stakes winners among your animals?"

"We always hope. Several yearlings show unusual promise and their bloodlines are excellent. There's one, sired by Nurania, that we're excited about."

We were close by the dwelling now. A porte cochere was the main feature of this side of the mansion, and a large affair it was. Two carriages could have driven underneath it at the same time. Deets indicated puzzlement as to the next move.

"Would you care to wash up now before lunch, or does a visit to the scene of the incident appeal?"

"Being outside, let us view the balcony from the ground," suggested Holmes, and our host led us round the nearby corner.

The north side of Mayswood had an imposing flight of steps up to a formal entryway, this being the front entrance, though I imagined the major traffic passed through the door by the porte cochere. Further along, the smooth stone walls formed a right-angle recess allowing for a second-story balcony onto which five French windows opened. The break in the rectangular shape of the edifice was a pleasing architectural touch. The balcony was fronted by a stone balustrade on which were ornamental heads of savage beasts. In the center, a lion's head was slightly larger than its companions, a nice patriotic touch I thought.

"This being the balcony that you feel the intruder reached?" questioned Holmes in a manner that indicated his query was purely form.

Deets nodded. "For the life of me, I don't see how he made it."

I didn't, either. The windows on the ground floor were all effectively barred. Above them the walls were smooth, and any ledges or projections of some sort that would have given a cat burglar the handholds necessary to reach the balcony were just not there. Stout English ivy, which has served the lawless so well, was also absent.

Deets and I watched Holmes survey the side of the building and then move to a different position to view the balcony from another angle. When the horse-breeder looked at me questioningly, I indicated that I was as ignorant as he was to what was going through the sleuth's mind. This was not quite true, of course.

"Suppose I go inside and clean up," he suggested. "If you would care to view the sitting room, Dooley will show you up."

"Capital!" responded Holmes in a preoccupied manner.

As our client removed himself, I turned anxiously to my companion. Unless he had already come upon something, I fancied that he was viewing the scene and asking his agile mind what he would do were he a burglar intent on reaching the balcony. Before I could frame a question, Holmes's eyes found mine.

"A poser, would you say, Watson?"

"Indeed. I cannot imagine how even one of those human flies from the circus world could do it."

"Well, he did not climb the walls. He did not use a ladder. Such equipment could not have been removed in time. And," he added, chuckling, "he did not fly, lacking wings."

"Then how? There's certainly no clue."

"You are not at your best, ol' chap. By eliminating the more common methods, we must settle on a rope, an aid used by mountain climbers all the time."

My mouth sagged. Not at Holmes's simple explanation but at my idiocy for not thinking of it myself.

"Here I stand," continued the detective. "It is a dark and rainy night, important since the sound of falling water serves to cover any noise. In my hand is a coil of line attached to a light grappling hook. From right about here," he said, positioning himself, "I believe I could cast the hook upwards and over that stone balustrade. When the tines of the hook grip the railing, I keep the line taut and swarm up it to the second story. Now, if clever, I prepare for the worst by releasing the grappling hook, passing it under the rail of the balustrade, and lowering it to the ground. Now I have two strands of rope leading to the ground. I enter Mayswood via the French windows. But I hear approaching sounds. I flee back to the balcony and lower myself rapidly by sliding down the lines. Back at ground level, I pull the line free and disappear into the darkness. 'Tis done."

"Holmes, that's amazing. You have recreated the entire event."

"Not so, for I've revealed how I would do it. However, should we discover some scratches on that balustrade that might have been made by the hook I envision, I rather fancy the matter is solved."

There was a certain self-satisfaction in his words that was grating. I banished my irritation as unworthy.

A venerable butler greeted us at the front entrance and led us upstairs. Mayswood was high-ceilinged, and most of the rooms were large enough to hold a meeting of the army general staff. But the feudal atmosphere of so many English country estates was completely lacking, no surprise since the mansion was certainly erected in this century and the furnishings were of no particular period but reflected the styles of many lands.

The upstairs sitting room was filled with sunlight from its four French windows, and the balcony revealed a breathless view of the surrounding countryside. Holmes was surveying the stone balustrade with his ever-present pocket glass when Deets rejoined us, now clad in tweeds. Holmes's movements had become more feverish as he moved from section to section of the stone railing, and finally he regarded us both with an expression akin to chagrin.

"I presented a plausible explanation to Watson regarding the coming and going of your uninvited guest, but the necessary corroboration eludes me."

I had begun to explain to Deets Holmes's idea when there was a sharp exclamation from the sleuth, who was now inspecting the outside of the railing.

"All is not lost," he exclaimed as we crossed to stand beside him, following the line indicated by his outstretched index finger. The ornamental lion's head on the outside of the balustrade rail was missing half an ear.