Sherlock Holmes and the Sacred Sword

"What's this?" said Deets. "I wonder when that happened."

"Quite recently," replied Holmes in a triumphant tone. "Note how the newly revealed marble is not weathered as is the stone around it. My basic idea was sound, but I missed on the execution."

Deets was regarding him with a baffled expression that I recognized and well understood.

"Allow me to re-create the actions of your intruder."

Holmes shot me a quick glance. "This time, correctly. The man stood below, having no doubt seen you, Mr. Deets, depart. He held a light but strong line with a weight attached to its end, similar to the South American bolo. He spun the weighted line round his head, much in the manner of a cowboy of the American West with a lariat, and then cast it upwards. The weighted end wrapped itself round this ornament, knocking off part of an ear in the process. Holding the line taut, he climbed up. Once here on the balcony he removed the weighted end, ran it under the rail, and let it drop to the ground. I would estimate that on departure he could slide down the rope and pull the unweighted end free in a matter of fifteen seconds. Especially if he wore gloves or had heavily calloused hands."

Deets was shaking his head. "You have solved the mystery with a very clear explanation, Mr. Holmes. What do I do now?"

"I don't know. Nor do I know my next move unless I find out what the intruder was after."

This suggestive remark was allowed to dangle for a brief moment and I felt that we might be getting somewhere, but then Deets looked away. Was there an expression of guilt on his face?

"I can't tell you," he finally said.

This could have been read two ways, but Holmes did not choose to pursue the matter. Rather, he turned to admire the vista of rolling green fields.

"I note the horses all around us," he said casually.

Deets eagerly seized on the change of subject.

"We keep the brood mares separate, of course, but allow the yearlings and the stallions to roam at will. We're at the crest of the hill here and the fields stretch on every side. They are well fenced, and it gives the young fellows a chance to watch the sires. They seem to develop faster that way, chasing after pater as it were."

"I understand," said Holmes, "that horses, especially race horses, rather fancy companions. Roosters, dogs. . . ."

"Some do. Before my father bought Mayswood he raised dogs. But he developed a skin allergy that the doctors attributed to canine hair. That was the end of the dogs."

"Whippets? Greyhounds, perhaps?"

"Dobermans," was the reply. Holmes allowed this subject to drop as well.

By unspoken mutual consent, we all retired to the interior, descending the great stairs towards the dining room where we enjoyed a tasteful luncheon and some excellent burgundy that our host recommended highly. I was prompted to inquire as to where he had secured this vintage but suppressed the question as it seemed in poor taste.

Holmes informed our client that we would return to London via the afternoon train and that he would make inquiries as to the presence in England of a second-story man who had come from or had been in the Argentine. He used the word gaucho in connection with the suspect and said, in an encouraging manner, that a thief with a particular aptitude that was unusual was much easier to find. Deets seemed heartened by this fact, and we took our leave of Mayswood.

The click of wheels on rails along with the burgundy caused me to sleep much of the way back. When I did rouse myself on the outskirts of London, Holmes anticipated my question.

"Of course he knows, Watson."

"What?"

"What the intruder was after. I suspect we do, too. In response to my direct question you noted that Deets said 'I can't tell you.' By that, I assumed that he was bound by a promise, perhaps a fear. Then, too, the stationmaster at Litchfield who directed us to the carriage and the driver both knew our names, and I felt they were aware of the reason for our visit. It would seem that Deets enlisted our services as window dressing. 'Look you, beware, for Holmes and Watson are on the scene.'"

"Come now, that's stretching it a bit, is it not?"

"Possibly, but consider the matter of the horses and the dogs before them."

"You'll have to explain that."

"Captain Spaulding, retired from his explorations, settles down in England and raises dogs. Not the racing breed but Doberman pinschers, the fiercest watchdogs in the world. A reaction to canine hair causes him to drop this activity, and he turns to horse-breeding."

"What is unusual about that?"

"Nothing, until you consider the way Mayswood is laid out. Deets did say it was somewhat like a fortress. In addition, it is surrounded by fenced pastures containing, on all sides, high-spirited stallions and skittish yearlings. Were I intent on approaching the Deets ménage surreptitiously, I would think twice before crossing a field at the risk of being run down by a temperamental thoroughbred. When track champions are set out to stud, they evidence frisky ways. Captain Spaulding was intent on protecting something, and with his passing, his son has remained true to the task."

Holmes had given me plenty to think about. He was, as was his custom, diligently turning his theory this way and that in his mind to allow the light of reason to reflect on its various facets.

The remainder of our trip to Baker Street was made in silence.

Chapter Six

The Call to Colors

I well knew what twists and turns were in store at this point. The world's only consulting detective had involved himself in two matters, not unusually, for at times he had as many as a dozen cases that he handled simultaneously. His "calling out the reserves," as it were, merely signified that one or both ranked as a major challenge, and I had seen the sheaf of cables that Billy had dispatched two nights before. The harvest they produced had to be reaped.

Returning to our chambers was a signal for Holmes to depart after reading messages that had been delivered in our absence. In olden times I had chafed at being suddenly out of things, but I now realized that this was standard procedure in certain of Holmes's investigations. The cables had been dispatched to that ragtag army that his brother had referred to. Some Holmes met elsewhere, like Porlock, the informer, formerly connected with Moriarty of infamous memory. I had never seen the man, and Porlock was not his real name. But Holmes used him along with others whom I did know, some well.

They fell into two camps, this heterogeneous crew with strange backgrounds and unusual, specialized talents. The outside group were seldom spoken of. On rare occasions, an unidentified person of either sex might make a surreptitious visit to Baker Street because of the exigencies of a situation. I took pains not to make note of their features and, as much as possible, to wipe them from my mind's slate lest an unwitting slip of the tongue would cause harm.

The inside group were known by name to Billy, Mrs. Hudson, and myself. They appeared at our chambers frequently and on most occasions I was privy to their conferences with the master sleuth.

I pictured my friend, possibly in one of the many disguises he used so well, now involved with the outside group. Certainly he would be loosening his hounds on the scent of Chu San Fu, and the memory of the Chinese criminal caused me to spend part of the dying day oiling my trusty Webley and checking its load. Holmes had a seeming disregard for his personal safety, which I tried to counterbalance by being as prepared as I could.

When nightfall came, I ate a solitary meal and tried to cushion Mrs. Hudson's concern about the eating habits of her famous tenant. The nutritive needs of the detective were one of the many worries of the dear lady and revealed her extreme patience. When Holmes disappeared, one never knew when he would return, and when he did, he would like as not decide to have a bite, which might range from a nibble of cheese to half a joint of beef. When frustrated by a case, and on the premises, he frequently sat brooding at the table, his meal untouched, and our landlady's wheedling was to no avail. But if Holmes has a problem, Mrs. Hudson had some cause to feel pride in her skill with stove and skillet. Even in those early days when I was still recovering from my wartime wound and subsequent illness, I had been blessed with a good appetite and consistently did justice to her provender.

The dishes had been cleared away and, possibly spurred by our trip to the Mayswood stud, I had made some check marks against entries in the Southgate Plate due to be run over the weekend. Our news dealer, who delivered copies of all editions, included a biweekly racing sheet that I fancied. I had narrowed my choice to Vortex out of Grand Dame by Nurania when there were footsteps on the stairs.

Before I could arise, Holmes opened the door and Slim Gilligan, a valise in one hand, followed him in. The former master-cracksman was our most frequent visitor from the inside group. His lock-and-key establishment, originally financed by Sherlock Holmes, was a successful business venture, small wonder since his workmen, mostly graduates of Dartmoor or Princetown, were skillful indeed. Installing a lock on a front door or making a new key for a file case was child's play to one who has opened a Mills-Stroffner safe in the dead of night by the light of a bull's-eye lantern. It was bruited about in certain circles that Holmes was a silent partner in Gilligan's business, which must have acted as a deterrent should any of the employees consider resuming their wayward paths.

Holmes favored me with a quick nod as he crossed to the desk, unlocking the cash drawer. Gilligan, his cloth hat at a jaunty angle and an unlit cigarette stuck behind one ear, winked in my direction. His expression indicated, "We're at it again."

"There is an inn in the village, Slim," my friend was saying, "and I'm sure you can work out a good cover story."

"A breeze, Guv," was the abnormally thin man's response.

Holmes removed some currency from the desk, placed it in an envelope, and handed it to Gilligan.

"A cable here will reach me or Watson. If not, Billy will find us. I don't know of any other problems save those we've discussed. How about Styles?"

Oh ho! I thought. Slippery Styles, the human shadow, is involved.

"'E's at Waterloo, waitin' fer me. You'll 'ave yer cable, Guv—in jig time."

With a cheerful wave in my direction, the cracksman was gone. I did not hear the downstairs door open or close, but when Slim came or went I never did. He just seemed to materialize like a genie at Holmes's call and then vanish. For a time, I had thought that by night he came and went via the roof. Gilligan was a great fancier of rooftops. Of late, it had crossed my mind that he might know about the house next door and the secret entrance to our establishment. I refrained from bringing this matter up. If Holmes wanted me to know, he would tell me. One of my friend's catch phrases was: "I tell as much or as little as I choose." Usually, he modified this somewhat cavalier statement with the additive: "That is the advantage of being unofficial." The years had taught me that this was an elastic phrase meaning that he alone possessed carte blanche. In truth, he had on occasion chosen to appoint himself as the prosecution, judge, and jury as well, but no harm had come of it.

During my musings, Holmes had gotten his pipe going and now saw fit to break his silence.

"Any visitors, Watson?"

"None. Nor messages, either."

"No matter."

Followed by a trail of smoke, he began to pace our sitting room with that purposeful manner. Holmes was tall and amazingly strong, the best amateur boxer I had ever seen. As a result, his movements were graceful and his footfall light. Had it not been so, I imagine there would have been paths worn in our carpets, for he did like to think on his feet. I imagined that his mind, so capable of absolute concentration, was completely immersed in the Deets matter and whatever errand he had sent Gilligan on. Slim's mention of Waterloo had led me to associate the cracksman with the Mayswood affair. As usual, Holmes surprised me.

"I agree with your selection, Watson. Vortex should win the Plate with ease."

There must have been exasperation on my face as I followed his moving figure. My racing sheet was on the end table, though how he spotted it and my pencil work I could not fathom.

"Look here, Holmes, I checked at least four of the horses."

"But you underlined Nurania, Vortex's sire, said former champion being the leading stud at Mayswood Farm. Your final choice is obvious, is it not?"

I suppressed a sigh. Everything was obvious, once Holmes explained it.

Having produced his surprise, which gave him joy, the sleuth switched to the matter at hand. His words, presumably directed at me, might well have been delivered to the walls in my absence. But I was a fixture like the commonplace books and his voluminous files, a sounding board that he had become accustomed to.

"Chu San Fu has been positioned for me and there is no undue activity in his lair, which means he hasn't heard, as yet, of our trip to Mayswood."

"You think he has an information source in Surrey?"

"If I read the signs right. One, there was an intruder at Mayswood. That ornamental lion's head gave us a corroborating clue there. Two, the nighttime visitor was not a robber but a one-man survey team. Getting the lay of the land, as 'twere. Three, the Chinaman is after the Sacred Sword."

"Hold on!" Occasionally I rebelled in my role of Greek chorus, a fact that did not nettle Holmes. In fact, he welcomed it since it gave him the opportunity to test the steel of his reasoning. "Your first two statements had a foundation of fact, but now are you not moving a bit out on a limb? Do we know that this sword that intrigues you so is not just a myth?"

"Touché, Watson. We must visit Sir Randolph Rapp to secure an opinion."

An expert one, I admitted to myself. Sir Randolph had figured in a previous adventure of Holmes's and was the dernier cri, to my way of thinking.

"One thing Rapp will mention is that most myths and folklore are not just flights of fancy. The Midas legend for one—"

Whatever other tales, lost in time, Holmes intended to cite I did not learn, since there were sounds from without and he crossed to the door and flung it open. Filling the aperture was the robust form of Burlington Bertie.

"'Ere we be, Guv. Mite late but I did me best."

"Ah, Bertie. Do come in."

As Holmes stood to one side, I fear my eyes must have of a sudden resembled saucers, for behind Bertie there was another figure.

I'm sure it was an illusion, but when this apparition followed in Bertie's footsteps, it seemed that he had to step sidewise to make his way through our substantial doorway. He was no taller than Holmes, but his width dwarfed the burly Bertie. His hair, so blond as to be almost white, topped a round face devoid of wrinkles with no traces of a beard. It was the face of a child set on a sturdy neck that terminated in a huge upper frame. He was, almost literally, as broad as tall. His legs were short but had to be like the trunks of oak trees to support him. There was a smile seemingly painted on his face, and his wide blue eyes had a dreamy quality as though he had just awakened.

I rose to my feet hurriedly and noted that Holmes was regarding our unusual visitor with a surprised look as if wondering if the body was real and not carved by a woodworker using Gog and Magog as models.

"This 'ere's Tiny," said Burlington Bertie.

"I see," replied Holmes. I admired his sangfroid.

"Do be seated, gentlemen."

The humor of Lambeth and Limehouse, Chelsea and Croydon, is of a simple nature. How could this gargantuan be named anything but "Tiny"? I watched his progress into the room with alarm, trusting that our furniture would survive. Holmes directed traffic in such a manner that Tiny was aimed at our largest chair by the fire.

"Tiny don't say much but 'e's a good lad."

"Quite," replied Holmes. "I can see that he would not need many words."

The movements of the good lad fascinated me. They were delicate, as though he trod on eggs and maneuvered in a doll's house. Of course, I thought, the poor chap has to be careful. An inadvertent gesture and he's liable to push down a wall!

Tiny lowered himself into his designated chair in so fluid a manner that there was not even a creak. He sat with his hands placidly folded in his lap, his face slowly moving between Holmes, Bertie, and myself with interest, and his smile never wavered.

"You said there might be some business, Mr. 'Olmes, so I brung the boy along to see if 'e'll pass muster."

"He'll do just fine," replied my friend.

Tiny was obviously listening and capable of understanding, for he started to rise but was forestalled by a gesture from his companion.

"There's more yet."

As the giant resumed his seat, Bertie turned again to Holmes. "Loik I says to yer earlier, Mr. 'Olmes, there's not a sign of that third bloke wot I caved in on the docks when I hies meself back there t'other night."

"You mentioned pursuing some leads," replied the sleuth, who had managed to drag his eyes away from Tiny.

"I 'ad in mind Blind Louie, the beggar. 'E lives not far from the docks and wot 'e don't see ain't worth viewin'." As though this required additional verification, Bertie turned towards me. "Sharpest eyes between 'ere and Land's End, Doctor."

"Blind Louie?"

"At's roight. Oi 'ad me a good idea for Blind Louie was comin' 'ome 'bout the time of the fracas wot 'e seen. 'E's got the end of that white cane of 'is weighted and was goin' ter lend a 'and but 'e sees me and the late Negro 'ad got things under control. Anyways, after I leaves, Blind Louie is thinkin' 'bout gettin' on the dock to see if the cove I coshed ain't got a few pence wot 'e don't need, but Louie is cautious, 'e is, and a good fing, fer some Chinks comes by and picks up the body, and carts 'im away. Now Louie don't know 'oo the Chinks is but 'e figgers maybe the boyo I coshed is Sidney Putz."

Holmes shook his head, disclaiming knowledge of this sinister citizen.

"Me, neither, Mr. 'Olmes, but Louie says Putz used to work fer Weisman, the usurer. And 'at's all I could dig up."

"A good job, Bertie." My friend was crossing to the desk again as he spoke. "We'll see if we can learn more of Sidney Putz. Meanwhile, I am expecting some action and I want you and Tiny to be on call." Holmes secured more notes from the cash drawer and passed them to Bertie. "I don't know what is involved, but I'll get a message to you at the usual place."

"Right-o, Mr. 'Olmes. Wotever the caper, you just do the thinkin' and Tiny and me, we'll make out."

"Of that I'm sure," stated Holmes with deep-seated conviction.

Fascinated, we both watched Bertie and Tiny depart.

I sank back in my chair and mopped my forehead with Irish linen. "Really, Holmes, life is never dull at 221B Baker Street."

"How fortunate for us. Keeps us young, you know."

He did have the good grace not to let the matter drop at that.

"As you gathered, I spoke to Bertie earlier. Almost as an afterthought, I recalled those two giant Manchurians we came in contact with once before. Followers of Chu San Fu. Now Bertie is no midget, so I asked him if he could locate another good man in a brawl."

"I would say," I answered, "that Bertie filled the bill."

Chapter Seven

Special Commission

The following morning when my senses sluggishly saw fit to rise from the sea of the subconscious, I guessed that the hour was not an early one. The warmth of my blankets held appeal, but I resisted the impulse to lower my lids again and deny the world of reality.

I rose with a half groan, my feet searched the cold floor for my worn bedroom slippers, and shortly thereafter, clutching my dressing gown round me, I descended to the sitting room of our bachelor abode. The possibility that Sherlock Holmes, habitually a late riser, might still be abed was disproved by the acrid smell of the strong shag of his morning pipe which assaulted my nostrils on the stairs. I found my friend seated at the desk regarding messages.

"My good Watson," he said without looking up, "the heel of one of your slippers is loose. Do have it looked after before you come acropper."

"How did you—!" I began, and then bit back the words. "A revealing sound during my descent, no doubt," I concluded.

"Exactly. We readily detect the sounds of others but tend to ignore those we make ourselves." Holmes rose to knock out his pipe in the fireplace. "But we cannot ignore some news just in. Action is called for, and I have a special commission for you."

My spirits brightened. It had been some time since the disappearance of Lady Frances Carfax, but the adventure remained etched in my mind.^* Holmes had deputized me to conduct an investigation relative to the lady, and his critique had been to the point.

^*Surely Watson is in error here. "The Disappearance of Lady Frances Carfax" is generally agreed to have been in the Summer of 1902, long after this adventure.

"A very pretty hash you have made of it," were his words, and he had twisted the knife further by later adding: "I cannot at the moment recall any possible blunder that you have omitted." Since that moment, I had yearned for the chance to redeem myself.

"It is vital that I have someone on the scene at Mayswood," continued Holmes.

"But Gilligan and Styles—" I began.

"I have a cable from Slim on the desk. But I need an inside man, Watson. Matters are coming to a head with greater rapidity than I anticipated. You can catch the late morning train for Surrey at Waterloo."

"And my mission?"

"You will inform Clyde Deets that I have uncovered a warm trail as regards his nocturnal intruder. Let me impress upon you, ol' fellow, that this is true. We are not telling the gentleman the whole story, but that's neither here nor there." Holmes was regarding me closely. "Deceit is not one of your strong points, and I want you at ease with your conscience."

"Oh, come now—"

A hand gesture stifled my retort, a good thing since this subject was shaky ground for me.

"Tell Deets that you wish to make inquiries in Litchfield and the surrounding area. You can be a bit mysterious about it. Clients rather like that. He will offer you the use of a carriage, but you suggest that you could perform your investigations better from horseback."

"Holmes, would you have me on a racehorse?"

"Tut, tut! Have no fear of that. I'm sure he can provide a hunter suitable to your needs."

"Well, it's been a while since I've been in a saddle, but I suppose I can carry it off."

"Assuming our duplicity holds water, as I fancy it will, ride off in the direction of Litchfield. Out of sight of the establishment, circle the area carefully, making note of the roads and where they lead. You'll have to ride into the hamlet itself to preserve the facade of conducting an investigation. Pay particular attention to the railroad, Watson."

"I'm to survey the terrain, then. Sounds a bit like a military campaign."

"Agreed," said Holmes with an approving smile that banished some of my doubts. "Also, I want you to acquaint yourself with the stables at Mayswood, especially those devoted to the riding animals. Locate the tack room. Mention that you are addicted to strolls after dinner. I want you familiar with the stable area in the dark. Deets may volunteer to accompany you, so much the better. Horses are his business so he'll readily give you a guided tour. Now, one other thing: when you arrive at the breeding farm, manage to be at the window of the room made available to you between nine and nine-thirty at night. Extinguish the lights and use a candle. Pass it three times back and forth before the window. Then await an answering signal, three flashes from a lantern. Repeat the process, if necessary, until your signal has been acknowledged."

I regarded Holmes with an expression akin to astonishment.

"But why this hocus-pocus? Reminds me of that Baskerville affair."

Holmes's concerned and serious manner was swallowed up by a chuckle. "So it does. Hadn't occurred to me. But consider that for my peace of mind I must know your exact location. You play such an important part in the weapon that we are forging."

His words produced a glow of pride, and my spirits rallied at the thought that he placed such faith in me. Later it occurred to me that his words actually revealed nothing, and when I was on the Surrey-bound train, I experienced a moment of panic at the realization that I knew so little of Holmes's plans. His instructions did not appear to involve anything vital at all. But I banished my misgivings, determined to let the drama unfold. I really had very little choice.

Holmes had cabled ahead, alerting Deets of my arrival, and the same carriage and driver, Alfred, awaited me at the Litchfield station. My host had held luncheon for me, and as indicated previously, he set a fine board. He was seemingly delighted to learn that Holmes was "on to something," as I put it. My revelations were flimsy fabrics indeed, but I managed to introduce some suggestive silences and wise looks, all of which he readily accepted.

Suddenly I realized that the threadbare information with which Holmes had dispatched me had been no oversight by the master man-hunter. Detailed explanations were not needed, and I felt that I had earned some scattered applause interspersed by a few faint "bravos!" Not for my performance as the supposed investigator, but for the fact that my words were honored without question. The career of my friend was at this period certainly approaching its zenith, and his name was a household word, due in part to the recountings of certain of his adventures that I had made available to the reading public. When Holmes was on a case, his methods were immune to criticism, and in truth the solution was considered a fait accompli. Such was the aura of infallibility that surrounded his name that even a sophisticated man of the world like Deets was caught up in the cloak of invincibility worn by the man from Baker Street.

When Dooley, the butler, showed me to my room, I found that my valise had been opened and my things hung up. The aged family retainer, during the serving of lunch, must have heard my request for the use of a horse, for there were riding pants available along with boots that suited me nicely. The butler was a bit long in the tooth for the trade of espionage, but I felt he would be pleasing to Mycroft Holmes, who put such store in "anticipation."

Deets took me personally to the stables and had a groom saddle up a chestnut mare, all the while assuring me that she was a gentle animal. As Holmes had instructed, I made note of the area where the saddles, bridles, and blankets were kept, resolving to revisit it come nightfall. Deets gave me simple directions to Litchfield and mentioned that should I get lost, my steed would, if given a free rein, return me to Mayswood without fail. I sensed that, with the eye of an expert, he placed little faith in my horsemanship.

I had managed to make a fair mount and set off with high resolve to emulate cavalry officers I'd known when with the Fifth Northumberland, my old regiment. I must have been holding the curb rein too tight, for the chestnut, "Fandango" by name, worried at her bit and was lathering at the mouth, showing a disposition to introduce short, nervous side steps. I loosened the reins and contented myself with indicating my desired direction by the pressure of my knees, an arrangement that seemed to suit the horse, who relaxed so that we both were able to enjoy the warm afternoon sun and bracing air.

Some distance from Mayswood, I diverted from the main road to the neighboring village and started a wide circle round the breeding farm. Now Fandango introduced another little trick in her repertoire. Since we were not moving away from Mayswood, at every crossroads she chose to veer in the direction that would return us to its pastures. After some urging on my part, we reached a meeting of the minds and my mount abandoned visions of her stall, oats, and a rubdown.

The winding country roads were in good condition considering the spring rains, and the whole area, in contrast to Mayswood itself, was heavily timbered. Hemlock, chestnut, and elm were in profusion, and it occurred to me that the coloration of Fandango blended well with the surrounding trees. My riding apparel was beige, and were I to pull off the road and remain motionless in the timber, I fancied my mount and I would be difficult to spot. The lane I had chosen inclined upwards after a while, and soon I was on a bluff looking down on a pleasant valley. The gleam of rails was discernable to the left, and as I followed them visually I noted a freight terminus of some size with a variety of tracks on which boxcars and freight carriers stood, many empty and with their doors open. This puzzled me somewhat, being removed from Litchfield, until I realized that the rails I had first noted were probably a branch line and that sizable freight trains were assembled at this terminus and then dispatched for the run into the metropolis of London.

It was a country freight yard that I had chanced upon. Well, Holmes had drawn my attention to the railroad so I abandoned my proposed circuit of Mayswood and rode a little way along the path until I found a trail leading down from the bluff and into the valley. I made note of the area in case my side journey turned into a dead end and I was forced to return this way. Once on level ground, I followed the rails towards Litchfield. When we turned away from Mayswood, Fandango again showed a disposition to sulk, but she finally became reconciled to the situation and mustered a presentable single-foot that did not bounce me too much in the saddle, though certain portions of my posterior gave promise of tenderness.

The single-foot segued into a canter, and I realized that Fandango was a gaited horse when she accelerated into a rack that ate up ground with a gentle rapidity. The horse, like Deets, sensed my ineptitude and seemed to be making things easy for me, or perhaps she was in a hurry to get the matter over and get back to a nosebag.

On the outskirts of Litchfield Fandango decelerated into her single-foot, probably her most showy gait, and I fancy we made a sporty pair as we entered the hamlet, which was little more than one street of about two city blocks in length terminating at the railroad station.

As I suspected, there was a cable office adjacent to the station, and I drew up before it and, carefully and slowly, quitted my saddle with no more than a few grunts. I led Fandango to the horse trough in approved style and then secured her reins on an adjacent rail right next to a mounting box. I'd gotten off without falling on my face, and perhaps I could resume my seat with dignity as well.

At the cable office I entered and made a show as though inquiring about a message. Actually I just exchanged some words with the telegrapher about the weather, and he must have thought I was a lonesome soul indeed. Vacating these premises, I noted that the local inn, a small establishment, was named "The Red Lion." Were I to possess a pound note for every inn by that name in Britain, I might well have a box at the races next to Lord Balmoral! "The Red Lion" had to be the center of Litchfield's limited social life, so I set my feet towards it resolutely. Then I saw them! Two Chinamen on the opposite side of the street and coming towards me. Well, I had not been friend and biographer of Sherlock Holmes for so long without recognizing the makings of a shrewd move. Orientals don't just happen in the depths of Surrey. Contrary to the experience of our American cousins, English hands iron English shirts, and most of our railroads were built with the assistance of the Welsh and the Cornish. The Chinese had to be visitors and, hence, had to be residing at the inn.

I hastened my steps and preceded them into the edifice by way of the pub door conveniently available. Being already on the premises, they could not suspect me of following them should they make an appearance. Chinese spelled Chu San Fu, and while the grip of the former crime czar on Limehouse had been broken, it made sense that many of the retainers he still had left would be of his race.

I assumed a stance at the empty bar and wished I had a riding crop to tap against my boots as I ordered a stout.

The barkeep was a man of few words, but when he filled my order he summoned seven of them, revealing in the process his Scots ancestry.

"I ken you're nae from these parts."

"A visitor, my good man, as you have discerned."

I felt that a sop to the Scot's powers of observation might lead to more discernment on other subjects, but he indicated little interest in my length of stay, point of origin, or anything else.

After giving the polished wood surface a perfunctory swipe with a bar rag, he retired to the end of the room to throw darts at the inevitable board. Keeping his eye sharp for some bets with the evening trade, I thought. However, said practice was interrupted, to my delight, by the entrance of the Chinese. In very broken English, they requested tea and retired to a side table and low conversation in their native tongue. The barkeep relayed the order through a service window in the back of the bar and resumed his dart activity.

I was considering ordering another draft and wondering how I might get closer to the Chinese, a fruitless task since I could not understand one word of their conversation. Then there was another entry, a disconcerting incident to the barkeep, who had just scored two center hits and was intent on making it three. As it happened, his services were not required. A thin little man in nondescript clothes found his way inside with some difficulty, holding his throat with one hand and gesturing at his mouth with the other. When he spoke, it was in a croak and with some effort.

"Is there . . . is there a doctor round?"

Lifelong training took over. "I am a doctor," I said, promptly crossing to him.

"Got somethin' stuck in my windpipe," he wheezed.

I removed his hand from his throat and, using two fingers, pried his jaws apart, peering down his gullet, but the light in the pub was dim. I ran a finger in an exploratory move past his tongue, for this could be serious, but he started to choke and I removed my digit while I still had it.

He gestured towards the door and I seized him by the arm with a gesture of agreement, leading him outside and into the afternoon sun. With his back to the door, I started to open his mouth again when things took a singular turn.

"Just give it a fake look-see, Doctor Watson, for it's a dodge. Me throat's tip-top."

I started to draw back from the man with a shocked expression, and alarm bells rang in my ears.

"Keep lookin', Doc," he urged in a low voice, raising his chin as though to aid my efforts.

As I made a dumb show of peering into his orifice, he spoke quietly and distinctly, no mean feat with his mouth wide open.

"Pay no attention to the Chinks, Doc. Mr. 'Olmes don't want those boyos to get a wind up. Just make yer way back to Mayswood, and we'll watch for your signal tonight."

"Then you are—?"

"—Slippery Styles, Doc."

Good heavens, I thought, the human shadow! I'd never seen him close to before, but when Holmes wanted someone followed, Styles was the man he called for. My friend contended that Slippery could follow a sinner into hell without getting his coat singed!

Momentarily inspired, I whipped out a pocket handkerchief, holding it to Styles's mouth and slapping him on the back. The little man made a nice show of apparently coughing up a chicken bone or some such object. There lurks in all of us the desire to perform, even in an empty theatre, and I was so imbued by this adventure that I had a happy inspiration.

"My room is on the front of Mayswood," I mentioned as though I were telling the chap that he was all right now.

"Got yuh, Doc. Till tonight."

With the feeling that all was not amiss, I returned to the pub to pay for my drink and departed full of self-approval since I had not cast a single glance at the mysterious Chinese.

As I managed, with the help of the mounting block, to straddle Fandango and get my feet into the irons, I reasoned that Holmes must already be alerted to the presence of Orientals in the vicinity of Mayswood. No doubt from Gilligan's cable.

Going down the street, Fandango gave indications of following a different route and seemed to harbor definite ideas about it. It occurred to me that the horse would take me back to the breeding farm in the most direct manner if allowed to, so I was content to let her take charge. After all, there is a limit to the patience of a five-gaited show horse. Such she had to be to successfully transport a middle-aged doctor of sedentary habits safely up hill and down dale through the Surrey countryside.

Back at Mayswood Stud, I had ample time to wash up and change for dinner before joining Deets in the drawing room. His Irish whiskey was on a par with his burgundy, and seated next to a pleasing fire, my blood running faster from the day's ride, I resolved to treat said spirits with respect. My host had a pleasing personality, as I had noted before, though he was not as loquacious or rapid in his speech as he had been during our first meeting at Baker Street. I informed him that my afternoon had produced no results and considered mentioning the two Chinese but abandoned the thought. It could do no good and might do the reverse.

I tried to lead the conversation to horse breeding. Deets spoke easily and fluently on that subject, and I resolved to give more attention to the bloodlines of my racing choices in the future. Whenever the conversation dragged, I resorted to previous cases of Holmes's, a conversational crutch that I could use with facility and that always found ready ears. I did mention that I thought Holmes would conclude his London investigation shortly and would join us in the country. It seemed the sporting thing to do and apparently this proved welcome news.

Butler Dooley, like all of his rare breed, appeared with seeming omniscience whenever needed and gave indication of having a sharp pair of ears to boot. His master had absented himself for a moment for some undisclosed reason, and the butler inquired with concern if it were possible for Mr. Holmes to share my room should he be arriving shortly. He explained that Mrs. Deets had been in the process of redecorating all the other bedrooms, save the master suite, prior to her sudden departure for her sister's home on Tuesday. The reference to "sudden departure" rather pricked up my ears, and then the day of the week mentioned caught my attention. It now being Thursday, this would mean that Deets's wife had been bustled off to her sister's on the day that he visited us at Baker Street.

I forestalled the servant's departure with the indication that a refill would be acceptable, and thought furiously.

"Was it Tuesday that your mistress left, Dooley?" I asked, with what I hoped was a casual air. "I was of a mind that it was Monday."

"Oh no, sir, the mistress left on Tuesday all right, for it was the same day that Mr. Deets went to London."

Well, our client had specified that his wife had taken her trip before the incident of the intruder. I also thought it singular that the lady was removed from the estate immediately following the happening. Obviously, Deets was more concerned about the matter than he had indicated, or possibly his wife was of a nervous nature, though this did not coincide with my picture of an English lady satisfied with the rural life of a country estate, as high-toned as it might be. I decided to abandon this subject when I realized that, for all I knew, Mrs. Deets was not English at all and her life at Mayswood might not be a happy one either.

"Dooley," I said, accepting a refill that I noted was liberal. "Mr. Deets tells me you have been with the family for some time."

"I had the honor of serving his father."

"After his travels?"

"His travels, sir?"

The question to my question was delivered so immediately and honestly that I almost spoke of the famous Captain Spaulding and his explorations, but drew back in time. I was getting in too deep and was rather glad that the present master of the house returned at this moment.

Shortly thereafter we dined, following which my host graciously took me for a stroll round the grounds, providing excellent cigars for us both to enjoy during it, though I have always felt that the taste and aroma of a cigar loses something in the open air. They, like good brandy, are meant to be enjoyed in a comfortable easy chair, to be savored, as 'twere. I told the equine expert about the monograph Holmes had once published dealing with the ash of every known brand of cigar and tobacco and rather lengthily titled: "Upon the Distinction between the Ashes of the Various Tobaccos."

This so intrigued Deets, who obviously enjoyed the good things of life, that I was able to guide our footsteps without seeming to into the area of the stables containing the riding horses, and I used my eyes as well as I could and managed a few leading questions as well.

Life on a breeding farm evidently began at an early hour. It was with no difficulty that I was able to reach my bedroom before nine. My riding habit of the day had been carefully brushed, and the boots polished to a fine sheen. But the container in which my toilet articles were kept had not been opened. A tiny piece of wax was still under the cover when I opened it. This was a trick that I had learned from Holmes years ago. Within was the small candle that I had taken the precaution to include with my razor and the rest of my kit.

Extinguishing the lights on the hour, I lit the candle and passed it three times across the center window of my room. I then snuffed out the flame and blinked my eyes to allow clearer vision in the darkness, another trick of the sleuth. In short order there were three answering flashes from the woods. Quick work, I thought, but then Gilligan and Styles already knew which side of the house to watch. My trip into Litchfield had been of some benefit.

Clear country air, free from the oily smoke of channel coal, has a soporific effect, and I felt myself drifting off to sleep almost immediately.

My final thoughts were that it had not been a wasted day and I could think of no grievous errors I had made. Possibly I had some aptitude in the sleuthing line after all.

The following day gave promise of being a repetition of the previous one. Fandango seemed more familiar with my ways and allowed me, with a resigned air I thought, to make a complete circuit of the estate. I noted the various roads and paths as best I could along with the general terrain. Then we traveled to Litchfield where I avoided "The Red Lion" but, from habit, visited the cable office. I was somewhat surprised to find a message there, not yet dispatched to Mayswood. It was brief, as Holmes's cables were wont to be: "Inform those concerned of my arrival tomorrow. S.H."

I allowed Fandango her head returning to the stud farm, and she made a rapid job of it. A good thing, too, since I had noted a number of aches and pains when we had set out, and our brisk return trip seemed to relieve them rather than compound the problem.

I informed Deets of the contents of the cable and he finally expressed curiosity, reasonable under the circumstances.

"I wonder what he has learned?" It was a general question, but I sensed he expected an answer and might be a little suspicious if he didn't get one.

Well, ol' boy, I thought, you'd better make this good. Holmes has remarked often that subtlety is not one of your talents. Let's prove him wrong. Holmes was not a fabricator; he did not have to be. But I had noted that when he found it expedient to lay a false scent, he employed as much of the truth as possible. I determined to follow this principle in my first attempt at flim-flammery.

"I seldom know all of Holmes's moves until after the checkmate." Well, that was certainly true. "As he mentioned," I continued, "the fact that the intruder used a bolo-type device alerted him to a South American as a possibility. I can give you a guess."

Deets indicated this would be appreciated. "Holmes's knowledge of the criminal classes is extensive, and in addition he has access to the files of Scotland Yard and the Sureté as well, if need be." I didn't dwell on the Kriminal Archiv of the Berlin police. No sense in overdoing it.

"I think he has selected possibilities from known second-story men who are agile, strong, but small."

"Why small?" The wary look in Deets's eyes was fading away.

"He pulled himself up to the balcony in short order and descended in a trice; otherwise you would have seen him. That's not easy for a weighty man. Holmes pictures a type like a tumbler or acrobat, who is also adept with a weighted line. He has been narrowing down the list, and his cable indicates that he now has a prime suspect."

"But how does this tie in with your presence here? Not that your company hasn't been welcome," Deets hastened to add, with the true instincts of a proper host. "Your stories of Mr. Holmes's cases have been of great interest."

I hope I exhibited a magnanimous air. For safety's sake, I resorted to the oft-used device of a Socratical response.

"Would you think it possible that a man of that description might have been seen in this area?"

He nodded, of course. What else could he do?

"In fact, the culprit might still be in the vicinity planning a second attempt. If so," I stated with a touch of bravado, "my presence on the scene might deter such an idea."

Deets's boyish smile had returned.

"You detectives really have to touch all the wickets, don't you?"

"Detail. Painstaking detail. The sifting of all the facts and, finally, the forming of the relevant elements into a mosaic, a design that throws the harsh light of truth on what happened or, possibly of more importance, what might happen."

As well to be hung for a sheep as a goat, I thought. Deets didn't really know what I was talking about, for I didn't know myself. But it had a good sound to it and obviously played a pleasant tune in his ears. I resolved to attend future discussions between Holmes and our client lest some of my words come back at me.

I was present, but not at all in the manner that I had anticipated.

Chapter Eight

A Harrowing Night

I had no sooner retired to my bedroom, the footsteps of the attentive Dooley fading down the hall, when I was so startled that I must have jumped a foot. Out of nowhere came a voice, and it took a moment to realize that it was a familiar one.

"Is the coast clear, Guv?"

As I stood petrified, Slim Gilligan assumed that my silence indicated an affirmative and rolled out from under my bed.

"Good Heavens, Gilligan, what brings you here?"

"Mr. 'Olmes wants you ready to move, Guv. 'E's got a nose fer such things, 'e 'as, and tonight's the night."

I did not bother asking the cracksman how he had gained my room. With his record, a country estate presented no problems. To my credit, I acted in a businesslike manner. "What's the plan?"

"If yuh waits a bit, till the master of the 'ouse 'as folded up shop, you're to go downstairs. Tell the butler that you want to take another turn 'round and then nip out to the stables and saddle a couple of ridin' 'orses. Then you come back, see, and the butler—"

"Dooley."

"—'ll lock the place up fer the night. You get inter your ridin' togs and stand by. Mr. 'Olmes figures there's goin' to be a real hullabaloo durin' the night with a lot o' runnin' 'round, and you slips out in the confusion and gets the 'orses. Ride round back and make fer the main road, stayin' away from the tree line."

"Then what?"

"Just keep goin' away from the 'ouse. Mr. 'Olmes'll hail yuh."

"Is he here?"

"'As been fer a while. Good luck!"

Gilligan listened for a moment at the door and then slipped through it and was gone.

I sat on the bed for a moment, my thoughts awhirl. Holmes had said that I would play an important part in the drama to unfold, and suddenly it seemed that I would. It struck me that this was the greatest miscasting of all times. Night alarms with a somewhat overweight medical man riding over the countryside like a supporter of the ill-fated Stuarts fleeing from a company of roundheads? Holmes's drama might be played out like a farce comedy!

But the Watson spirit rose within me, and I banished such thoughts as self-defeating. Holmes had dressed me in the clothes of an adventurer, ready to take center stage, and I resolved to play the part with conviction, though I felt more like assuming Gilligan's hiding place under the bed, with a blanket over my head.

After a suitable period, I walked jauntily down the great stairs of the mansion and made for the rear. In the butler's pantry adjacent to the huge kitchen I found Dooley, who slipped a copy of La vie Parisienne out of sight and took me to the rear door, which he unlocked for me. Outside in the bracing night air, I walked casually and apparently aimlessly until well removed from the house and then made a beeline for the stables. None of the grooms were about, and I was able to secure the riding equipment from the tack room.

Locating Fandango's stall, I spoke to the horse in a low tone and allowed her to get used to the idea of my presence before slipping a bridle on her. I then led her from the stall and arranged the saddle. There were sounds from the other horses but I ignored them. Either I was going to pull this off undetected, or I was not. With the girth cinched tight around the mare, I secured her bridle in front of the next stall, figuring that the horse within, conscious of Fandango ready for action, would get the idea and accept the bit from my unfamiliar hands. Such proved the case, and with the two horses saddled, I returned them to their stalls to await their moment. I don't think my foray took more than fifteen minutes, and when I tapped on the back door, Dooley opened it for me, indicating no suspicion. Feeling considerably the better for having accomplished the first part of my task, I returned to my bedroom and wondered what the signal for the second act would be. Seated in an armchair, I steeled myself for the waiting, always the most difficult period in a situation like this. It had been such a short time ago that I had thought of the peaceful atmosphere in our snug quarters on Baker Street, and here I was in a Surrey mansion waiting for who-knew-what in connection with the Deets affair. It had begun like such, a pedestrian matter. The introduction of our client's deceased father into the list of dramatis personae had added the fillip of dark and sinister motives.

And what about the agent of Mycroft who had died in our presence? This bizarre occurrence combined with the invasion of our quarters had been momentarily jettisoned it would seem, though I knew Holmes's manner too well not to accept the fact that the two cases had connective tissue. The association of all this with one John H. Watson in Surrey was remote indeed. But if Sherlock Holmes's nostrils had quivered, there was a scent in the air.

My musings were suddenly interrupted with an energizing thought. My activities on this night had just begun, and I hastened to my feet to don my riding habit, on loan, to be ready for the action when it came.

It did come, finally, with a rush and a roar of sound that snapped me awake and out of the chair that I had been slumbering in. There were indistinguishable shouts transformed to alarms by their tone of anguish and terror. There was a smell in the air and, for a ridiculous moment, I thought it might be Holmes's pipe. But no, it was not the scent of his shag, but there was smoke. As I made for the stairs, it became more apparent. My God! It came from a conflagration!

Darting out the side entrance by the porte cochere, it being the most readily at hand, I saw flames lighting up the night sky. They were at or adjacent to the horses' barns wherein the racers were stabled. Despite a tumult of sound and running footsteps, I was completely alone. Every man jack on the place was at the fire, desperately trying to save the priceless thoroughbreds.

I made an instinctive move to rush to join the rescuers, but Holmes's instructions came to mind in the nick of time, and I bolted to the stalls of the riding horses, somewhat removed from the center of activity. There were whinnies and neighs as I made my way to Fandango, for the horses, sensitive to the aura of excitement, nay panic, were moving nervously in their places. Fortunately the wind was such that the smell of the fire had not reached them, or they might have been unmanageable. My presence seemed to have a calming effect on the chestnut mare, and I led her from her stall and then secured the reins of her neighbor.

When I mounted Fandango, the tenseness of the moment lent springs to my legs. With the other animal in tow, I urged the mare into motion. The moment we cleared the barn door, Fandango spied the not-so-distant flames. I was urging her in a direction that would take us around the country mansion, and she cooperated in a manner that jarred my back teeth. We swept by the house at a full gallop and thundered down the main road leading from Mayswood. I had all I could do to hang onto the reins of our companion animal, who was in just as much of a hurry as my mount.

I dropped my curb and was riding to the snaffle, and that was not true in a moment, for in desperation I dropped my bridle entirely and gripped the pommel of the saddle with one hand. For no reason, the name of the other horse flashed through my mind. "Mystique" she had been referred to. A suitable mount for Holmes, but Mother of Heaven, would I ever reach him!

Out of the night loomed a complication. The white-picket horse-gate was closed across the driveway to Mayswood as it would be in the night hours. The gallant Fandango, flanked by Mystique, was bearing down on the obstacle at a speed that defied stopping in time, nor were there reins in my hand to try it or the strength in my arms to do it if they had been there.

The gate, a low affair, assumed the proportions of a Grand National hurdle as we thundered towards it. Its white planking, touched by a spring moon that suddenly sailed free of high clouds, assumed a ghostly glow. To think that I, dedicated to the saving of life, was to end my days with a snapped neck or speared by a broken plank! Little did my dear, departed mother picture my emulating one of the ill-fated riders of that desperate charge in the Crimea!

The gate was upon us. Still gripping the saddle with one hand and Mystique's reins with the other, I instinctively leaned forward as I had seen huntsmen do when clearing a stone wall in pursuit of the elusive fox. Then the thunder of hoofs ceased, and for a glorious moment I had the feeling of flying, soaring through the air as if in fulfillment of man's age-old dream. I was suspended in a nothingness as those two splendid horses with their muscles uncoiled, their legs outstretched, cleared the barrier in unison. Oh, it must have made a wondrous sight—which I never saw, for my eyes were screwed tightly shut and I was just hanging on for dear life without even time for a fervent prayer.

The moment of weightlessness passed with a crash as we made contact with the road beyond the gate. I was jarred to my heels and lost a stirrup, coming within an ace of losing my seat as well. Then, by some miracle, the loose iron snapped back over the toe of my riding boot and I had the support of two legs, which allowed me to regain a portion of my balance.

As though in relief at clearing the obstacle, Fandango slackened her headlong rush and I was able to loosen my death-hold on the saddle and snatch at her flying reins. Leaning back in the saddle with the reins as support, I succeeded in slowing my mount and Mystique as well even further, and it was then that I heard the call. "Watson! Over here!"

I saw Holmes in the semidarkness waving a white handkerchief by the side of the road. I was so startled at hearing his voice, so amazed at even being alive, that a surge of unknown strength welled up within me. My left arm, which a moment ago had threatened to fall off, swung the reins to the right and I leaned in that direction as well, throwing the head, neck, and withers of Fandango against Mystique and somehow bringing both animals to a skidding, sliding halt right where Sherlock Holmes stood.

The great sleuth grabbed Mystique's reins as I let them drop. Securing the animal by the bit, he anchored Fandango in the same manner, all the time looking upward at me in complete amazement. The horses were sucking in air in great breaths and their forequarters were lathered a foamy white. Somehow my riding bowler was still on my head, though askew. I was as drenched and as breathless as the steeds but managed to keep my backbone straight. Had I sagged a smidgen, I would have fallen headlong from the saddle like a sack of grain. The moment was tense and the situation critical, but Holmes stole time to gaze at me as though unsuspected vistas had suddenly been revealed to him. I have always contended that my intimate friend had the rare ability to seize a situation at a glance, to read the book of a happening in a fleeting second, but this time his instant appraisal deserted him.

"Watson, good fellow, were it possible for me to be rendered speechless, I'd be as mute as an oyster! That gate is fully five pegs high and I could but think, as you came upon it, of a Cossack in full flight. And to clear it with not one horse but with two, in perfect form! If Deets were to give you a mount, I'd place my wager on your colors, dear friend."

I was goggle-eyed, but the sincere conviction of Holmes's words and the light in his eyes kept me from swaying. I could not and would not destroy an image nurtured, however incorrectly, in the mind of the kindest man I have ever known. I made a weak half-gesture towards the breeding farm in the distance. "Holmes, Mayswood is afire."

"Naught but haystacks, ol' chap," replied Holmes, swinging into Mystique's saddle. "Sufficiently close to the stabled thoroughbreds to create a menace, but something that Deets and his crew can handle. Come, let us observe the follow-up of this diversionary tactic."

The sleuth reined Mystique from the road into the line of trees, and I had little choice but to follow in his wake.

Brushing through branches and bending low in the saddle to clear outstretched boughs, we made our way through the trees to a point at the end of the timberline that I assumed Holmes had scouted and chosen in advance. From there, we commanded a fine view of the front of the mansion. The flames were dimly visible around the side of the residence, and the firefighters were still intent on their task. We were at our station but a moment when I spied at least four men who seemed to materialize from the ground before the house. There was a flash of metal in the air, and objects flew into the night sky to descend on the stone balustrade of the balcony.

"My thought of using grappling hooks was not amiss, Watson," whispered Holmes as the shadowy figures tested their lines and then swarmed up them hand over hand.

"What are they after, Holmes?"

"Regard the balcony. What do you see?"

"Five French windows . . . then there—"

"Enough. It is so true that one looks but does not see. That American, Poe's, concept of the purloined letter was accurate."

"Holmes, what are you—?"

"Think back to when we were within the gallery before walking out on the balcony. What is the picture that comes to your mind's eye, Watson?"

"Well, we walked towards the four French windows and made our way—" I stopped abruptly, shafted by a thought "Four windows! But five are staring me in the face."

"The fifth is a dummy. Look, they are making for it even now. In but a moment they will have the aperture open."

The figures that had gained the balcony were doing as my friend said. Huddled round the fifth opening, there was a pause in their feverish activity, which allowed me to protest, to give vent to my mental rebellion.

"I assume it is a door to a secret chamber, Holmes, but why not have it concealed?"

"Because someone's eye wandering over the face of the building would note an unusual distance from the real window on the end to the windows of adjacent rooms. They would wonder where all that space was, how it was used. As it is, you see a charming exterior in proportion and note the openings but do not count them. From the inside, things have a different perspective. You cannot consider a room you occupy in conjunction with adjacent ones."

"But when we went out on the balcony?"

"Did you notice anything unusual? Your eye was captured by the view. There were windows behind you, how many you did not count. You walked right past the false one, never conscious of the fact that you were passing an entry to a vault, a hiding place for whatever treasures Captain Spaulding brought back from his expeditions."

"You noticed it, of course."

"Ah, Watson, I have trained myself to look and to see as well. Ah ha! They've forced the door."

Two of the figures on the balcony suddenly disappeared within the house. The third posted himself by the real windows. The remaining one went to the edge of the area at the side of the building nearest the fire as a lookout should anyone note something amiss. Apparently confident that their arrival was undiscovered, as it certainly was, both men on the balcony then moved to the balustrade. Loosening the grappling hooks, they passed each one over the railing and dropped it to the ground. It was a re-creation of Holmes's suppositions several days before.

Suddenly I tightened my hold on the reins, lifting Fandango's head as though in preparation for a charge.

"This, then, is what Deets feared. That his uninvited visitor would suspect the location of the family vault. We must stop them, Holmes."

My friend's lean and sinewy arm reached out to grasp me by the shoulder and pull me back in my saddle.

"Hold tight, Watson. We have not planned this so carefully to stop them. We want to see what they do."

"Do? They're after that sword. You were right about that, of course. If left to their devices, they will spirit it away."

"Not so easily, good chap."

I noted flashes of light from the interior of what we assumed was the Deets' family vault.

"Gilligan and Styles are waiting on the Follonsbee Road, which is the only direct thoroughfare back to London."

Holmes gestured to our left. "Now there's a path in that direction, is there not? For I think the Chinese came from there."

"Oh, they are Chinese, are they? Let me see." My mind raced back over my journeys round Mayswood, and fortunately the mental pictures meshed in my mind.

"Yes, there is a good-sized lane running in a half-moon direction that way," I stated, pointing towards our left and rear. "It splits at a fork; one branch continues round by a bluff and curves back to the road to Litchfield, the other terminates at a railway assembly point down in a valley. Actually, there's a path down the bluff that reaches the same point much quicker. I chanced upon it."

"Good show, Watson! In former times that Confederate cavalry genius, Jeb Stuart, might have grown fond of you. The junction you mention must be for making up freight trains for the run into the city. I suspect that is the key to the Chinaman's plan."

His musings were interrupted by the reappearance of the men on the balcony of the Deets mansion. They were carrying something with them, though I could not make out its form. Had I to hazard a guess, I would have said it was a crated object. Holmes suddenly lost interest in the nocturnal attack squad. I noted they were securing the door they had forced, no doubt seeking to delay the discovery of their thievery.

Holmes swung Mystique to his left.

"Take my horse's tail in your hand, Watson, and let us be as silent as possible."

With some reservations, I secured the end of Mystique's tail in my right hand and, leaning low in the saddle, let Holmes choose our route through the trees. The arrangement was efficient since Holmes had uncanny night vision, which served him well on this occasion as it had many times in the past. My position was an uncomfortable one, but it saved me from being brushed from my saddle by tree branches on at least two occasions.

After a period of swerving round trunks, Holmes drew to a stop. I heard a cautionary "shush" from him, and then he was out of his saddle. Passing Mystique's reins to me, he was gone into Stygian darkness, for the trees blocked out the high-flying moon. My heart was pounding, half in reaction to what had been and half in anticipation of what was to come, and I cannot say how long he was gone. Suddenly I was conscious of another presence and felt Holmes retrieve his horse's bridle. I could make out his form dimly now, and he patted Mystique encouragingly on the muzzle, then took Fandango by the bit and led both animals in what I assumed was the general direction of Litchfleld, though my directional sense was nonexistent at this point.

After another short period, we came out of the woods. Standing by Fandango's forequarters, my friend posed a question.

"Is this the lane you referred to?"

In the added light of the clearing, I looked up and down the country road and nodded. "That path would be . . ."

I suddenly regained my confidence. A little light and visibility does have that effect on one.

"Here, I'll show you."

I urged Fandango forward as Holmes remounted and followed. Hopeful of recognizing landmarks I had noted previously, I kept a sharp eye and even then passed my objective. But the gleam of railroad tracks from the bluff reoriented me and I backtracked to the opening by the roadside and the narrow trail that my mount and I had traversed before. Holmes's hawk-like eyes had been sizing up the situation.

"I may call you 'pathfinder' in the future, Watson."

Forced by the trail to ride single file, I was unable to dazzle him with a retort, but then I could not think of one either. We had our hands full negotiating our passage, much more treacherous by night, I soon realized.

At last we reached level ground, and the shadows of freight cars dotted the scene. But there was sound as well. A stationary locomotive puffed in readiness, and there was movement and sporadic conversation. I realized that a train was being built up, probably carrying agricultural produce for early morning delivery to the hungry metropolis. Holmes kept us in the shadows, and since we had come from a heavily wooded hillside by a thin and tortuous trail, I had no doubt that our presence was unsuspected. The locomotive suddenly sprang to life, moving backwards, and there was a clang of metal as other freight cars were hooked onto a growing line.

"What is our next move, Holmes?"

"We've gained considerable time, which is fortunate. The Chinese had a delivery wagon on the roadway. With their cargo they are making for here by the branch road you mentioned, and the Sacred Sword will ride into London on the early morning freight whilst they return via the Follonsbee Road. It will mean that Gilligan and Styles are following a dead trail, but no matter."

Holmes's voice dwindled away and I shot him a quick glance, noting that his brow was furrowed. Then the lines disappeared and he was looking at me with that boyish half-smile.

"Merely anticipating, Watson. Do keep an eye cocked for the delivery wagon, like a good chap."

Again he dropped from the saddle and glided swiftly across the open ground towards the small building that seemed the nerve center of the junction. His movements reminded me of descriptive passages I had read regarding the American Indians' amazing ability to flit from one object to another when engaged in a stealthy approach.

Fandango gave indications of a whinny and I reached quickly forward, placing the palm of my hand over her nose. Really, that horse was most intelligent, and she curbed her desire to communicate. Then I saw, vaguely, a wagon coming round a bend in the distance. I hastily dismounted, holding both our steeds by their bits in an attempt to keep them silent. Suddenly, Holmes was at my side.

"If you ever wish to incriminate me, Watson, you have me dead to rights, for I have just stolen an object from the Great Eastern Railroad. I note our Chinese are on the scene, so let's get in the saddle once more."

He was displaying a piece of marking chalk as he spoke, standard equipment with freight handlers. I forestalled Holmes's move towards Mystique.

"Look here, I've been leaping on and off for half the night, Holmes, or so it seems. Would you be kind enough to give me a leg up?"

"Certainly," he replied, intertwining his long fingers. With one toe in his hand-cradle and his shoulder as a fulcrum, I managed to get astride of Fandango once more. As my friend swung upwards with a grace that was revolting, I saw the moon glisten on his white teeth and realized that he was laughing at me, but his words brought me up short.

"I've said before, Watson, that you occasionally display a pawky humor. I'm not fooled, you know, being convinced you are descended from Attila the Hun himself." So it is that reputations are born.

With Holmes leading the way, we progressed a distance away from the junction but parallel to the rails that were the feeder to the main line.

"The Chinese have arranged to have their crate placed in one of the freight cars, of that I am sure. This train is carrying naught but foodstuffs, so when the object is removed, it should be readily spotted. However, we shall facilitate the process."

Holmes had reined to a stop now and was looking back at the junction, and my eyes followed his. The wagon had drawn adjacent to one of the freight cars. Here in the valley the moonlight was quite bright, and I noted that an object about four feet in length was passed from the wagon to one of the railway roustabouts, who took it towards the line of freight cars. I looked at Holmes and realized that he was counting from the engine back.

"The twelfth freight car, Watson," he said happily.

Of course he was enjoying the whole thing, as he always did. Especially when he managed to keep one step ahead of the opposition.

Now he reined round again and we traveled further towards the main line. Drawing to a halt in the shadow of a clump of small trees, we waited, and then came the methodical and lugubrious chug of the locomotive as it slowly gained momentum with the cars behind it jerking into motion like reluctant children making for school in single file. Every thrust of the steam-driven pistons increased the speed of the metal serpentine, and it was proceeding at a good rate when it passed our place of concealment.

"Hold fast, good Watson," said Holmes as he broke from the trees, gigging Mystique to a fast gallop. I saw now that he had chosen the location carefully, for it was a stretch where the roadbed was level with the adjacent ground. Without realizing it I was counting cars, and then Holmes swerved his mount in close to the swiftly moving train and, leaning forward and out, he reached with one long arm to chalk an "X" on the twelfth freight car. Then he guided his mount away from the train and raced for the shelter of the trees.

As the train disappeared round a bend, I rejoined Holmes to find him patting Mystique with all the affection of a highland horseman for his bonny steed.

"Now that the pace of our nocturnal adventures has diminished, you might explain to me what is going on," I suggested.

"Things are going swimmingly, and now we shall make our way to Litchfield. This freight makes frequent stops along the line. We can catch the one o'clock flyer from Litchfield and reach London before it. I assume we can follow the rails to the rural hamlet."

"I've done so."

"Capital! Upon arrival, you make for the station and secure tickets. I will roust the cable-office attendant, for a message must precede us to London. A message to Deets will not be amiss if only to locate his horses for him."

Not long thereafter, I lowered myself gingerly into the seat of our compartment on the morning flyer with a deep sigh of relief. Stretching my aching legs, I mentally forced strained and knotted muscles to relax. There was the familiar click of wheel on rail and trestle. At last we were headed back to London, far more suitable surroundings for two staid, middle-aged bachelors, one of whom was intent on a steaming tub positively alive with Epsom Salts. Holmes had been right, of course, about the schedule of the flyer now hurtling through a countryside covered by the blackness of night. The man's knowledge of trains, both in Britain and on the continent, was positively encyclopedic, and I drowsily made mention of this.

"Ah, Watson, those ribbons of steel that are the warp and woof of the tapestry of transportation so indispensable to the empire. . . ."

At this point, I fell asleep.

It was Holmes's long, violinist fingers on my shoulders shaking me gently that summoned me from the land of Nod.

"Come, ol' chap, we are pulling into Waterloo, and the curtain has not yet fallen on this playlet."

It is with chagrin that I confess to a small, nay mean, streak within my nature, for it was pleasing to me that my companion seemed to arise from his seat with a hesitant manner as though testing the steadiness and capabilities of his extremities. I sprang upright, and it was with the greatest difficulty that I suppressed an exclamation of anguish. But my tottering legs stiffened at the quick glance of surprise tinged with envy that the sleuth flashed my way while unlatching the compartment door to the high-pitched background music of grating brakes as the train came to a halt.

My friend's firm hand on my arm guided me through the station and into a carriage without. Holmes's directions to the sleepy-eyed driver were inaudible to me, but at this point, I had lost interest in our next destination.

It proved to be a vehicular bridge over the vast checkerboard of Great Eastern rails converging towards the hub that was the transportation empire's London station. Holmes's suggestion that I remain with the carriage was accepted with alacrity. He removed himself to stand on the walk-across of the bridge, his eyes in the direction of Surrey. The appearance of his cigarette case and the lighting of one of the Virginia blends that he fancied suggested a lengthy vigil, and I fell asleep again.

Possibly it was the sound of an approaching freight or the peculiar tocsin that alerts us in some mysterious manner when action is imminent, but my eyes blinked open to catch Holmes watching the cars of a freight train passing beneath the bridge. At a particular moment, his white handkerchief waved in the half-light of the early morning. Since this was obviously a signal to someone positioned further down the line, I now understood the cable that he had taken pains to dispatch from Litchfield.

Not waiting to check the results of his improvised semaphoring, Holmes returned to our carriage, his knuckles rapping on the box. When the trap opened and a bewhiskered and heavy-eyed face peered down, Holmes finally delivered the curtain speech to our nighttime saga: "221B Baker Street, my good man, with all possible speed."

Chapter Nine

Holmes Assumes the Trust

It was well into the afternoon when I finally stumbled from my bed, giving vent to a series of jaw-straining yawns as I rubbed the vestiges of sleep from my eyes. Like an incoming tide, a flood of questions inundated my poor, lethargic brain, but I shoved a mental finger into the dike, effectively plugging the sea of conjecture. At the moment I cared not a whit as to the dramatic happenings of late or the potential fate of the Sacred Sword either.

After steaming in a hot tub, performing my toilet, and dressing with care, I descended to our sitting room feeling more the man and less like an archaic bag of protesting bones.

Holmes was not alone, for Clyde Deets at the moment was depositing his hat and gloves on the end table.

"I have remarked before about your intuitive timing, Watson. Mr. Deets is just upon the scene."

Our client's face was a blend of perplexity and fatigue with a soupçon of haunting fear.

"Gentlemen," he said in a harassed tone, "recent events are just too much for me. A fire at Mayswood, Doctor Watson's disappearance, your message, Mr. Holmes, which arrived with the two riding horses—"

"I trust," interjected Holmes, "that there was no damage to buildings or livestock last night."

"None. I can be thankful of that."

Deets's words terminated abruptly as though he were at a loss, and Holmes came to his aid.

"Best we shred the fabric of secrecy. A confidential inquiry agent cannot operate at a level of efficiency without all the facts. In this case, personal knowledge along with deduction filled some gaps for me."

"You know then. I might have guessed that you did. But do you both—" his eyes flashed to me "—understand the potential peril involved?"

"More than you do," replied Holmes confidently. "For simplicity's sake, let me sum this up. The subject of your father, Captain Spaulding, and his explorations in Egypt and the Sudan is very much off limits in your household, and not once have you made mention of his fame. It was your father's hope that his name and activities would fade into the mists of time, for he wished to become a missing link with the Islamics of the desert."

Holmes was speaking with such fluency that I suspicioned a communiqué from Sir Randolph Rapp. The ex-Regius Cambridge professor, turned motivational expert, was a veritable reservoir of vague incidents and half-known truths round the world, as indicated by his monumental work, The Motivated Minds of Mankind.

"Now I resort to surmise, though I'll stake my reputation on it," continued the sleuth. "Your father had a peculiar affinity with the Arabians. During his expedition to the Sudan he came upon a kindred spirit, a chieftain or sheik, no doubt, who had found wisdom with the passage of the years. This unknown hero realized that the Sacred Sword, a relic and supposedly the weapon of the prophet Mohammed, represented a potential catalyst, a symbol that, in the hands of a wild-eyed zealot, could launch a flood of fierce horsemen on neighboring territories. Faced, as they would have to be eventually, with modern artillery and disciplined troops, they would become the ingredients of a bloodbath, but oh! what carnage they could cause before their onrush could be stemmed."

Deets made as though to summon words but then leaned back with a shrug of acceptance, indicating that Holmes had already said them.

"The sword does exist, authentic, no doubt, and the chieftain saw a means of forestalling the possible annihilation of his people. He entrusted the relic in the hands of your father to be secreted in England. Captain Spaulding fell in with the idea and may have later regretted it, for he accepted an awesome responsibility. The thought of some rebellious nomad faction tracing the symbol to our shores is a bit far-fetched, but agents of an advanced nation might well do that. Great powers have been known to foment insurrection where it will do harm to their adversaries."

"That was my father's fear," said Deets simply.

"But now another piece has been placed on the board," said the sleuth, his large eyes traveling to the hearth fire as though conjuring pictures from its dancing flames.

"Last night, the fire was, as is obvious, a diversionary tactic to draw the attention of you and your household while the employees of a master criminal stole the Sacred Sword. I could have forestalled the happening but chose not to for the simple reason that Chu San Fu, a name unknown to you, would just try again."

Deets was sitting rigidly upright in his chair.

"Do you mean you know where the sword was taken?"

"Of course. Would I let it disappear? I, sir, am Sherlock Holmes."

Our client leaned back as though abashed.

"Of course. Forgive me. But what is your purpose in allowing this—this Oriental—to gain possession of the relic?"

"To learn of the plot that he has conceived. Chu San Fu is the former crime czar of Limehouse and the entire Chinese community. I entertain suspicions as to his sanity, but he is a wily opponent with vast financial means at his disposal. I would not for a moment allow him to possess this potentially dangerous symbol if I thought he was working on behalf of another agency, but that is not his way. He has some personal plan involving the sword, the outlines of which are but vaguely discernible to me at this moment."

"Then you intend to give this criminal rope . . . ?"

"Hoping to hang him with it, of course."

"Mr. Holmes, what would you have me do?"

"Nothing. Was anything else removed from the vault?"

A negative shake of the head was Deets's response.

"Then I have assumed the trust placed in your father's hands in far-off Arabia. It is I who must see that the sword does not fulfill a fateful destiny. I suggest that the fire at Mayswood was the only incident that night. The robbery just never happened."

Deets's lips were pursed as though tasting the sour fruit of decision. He was regarding his hands, nervously clenched in his lap, and then his eyes rose to meet those of Holmes, and the haggard expression seemed to fade from his face.

"I really have little choice, you know. Were I to report to the authorities the taking of an object not even known to exist, they might well send me back to my brood mares with patient words and comforting pats on the back. So be it, Mr. Holmes. The Spaulding trust now rests on your capable shoulders."

When our visitor had taken his leave, I regarded Holmes with a touch of exasperation.

"The fact that you insist on assuming the burdens of troubled people on three continents is not unknown to me, but Holmes, by all that is holy, what have you got us enmeshed in now?"

"A tasty problem, ol' fellow."

"And one that, in future times, will prompt the remark: 'Only Sherlock Holmes could have solved it.'"

"I trust that is so," replied the sleuth, rubbing his hands together with satisfaction. He could never be faulted for underestimating his potential.

"All right. I must concede that the historic sword exists and you have allowed Chu to secure it, though it seems to me you are somewhat casual about that fact. Where is the object now?"

"Safely in the hold of the Hishouri Kamu, a tramp steamer that raises anchor at Southampton with the flood tide."

Holmes's answer to direct questions were sometimes vague, but this one was not and I could only stare at him.

"Burlington Bertie and his friend Tiny were positioned in the railway yard when the slow freight from Litchfield arrived. My signal from the bridge allowed them to keep the proper boxcar under observation, and they followed the crated sword to the Hishouri Kamu. The object is not listed on the manifest, but another singular one is under refrigerated cargo. The coffin containing the body of one Sidney Putz."

"Who?"

"The man on the dock. One of the attackers of Mycroft's agent that Bertie coshed."

"You mean he killed him?"

"Doubtful. More likely he was disposed of by Chu's order, having failed in his mission. His coffin is marked for delivery in Alexandria."

I was shaking my head in a confused manner and Holmes continued, a sharpness denoting impatience in his voice.

"Come, come, Watson! The sword is taken to the freighter, which just happens to list in its cargo the final remains of Sidney Putz, in life employed by Chu San Fu as an assailant. Surely, too much coincidence there. The sword is by now concealed in the coffin, and since we know that it is ticketed for Alexandria, that is the sword's destination. Can you conceive of any reason why the body of a dreg of the London underworld is being transported to Egypt save to provide a place of concealment for the fabled weapon?"

"But why, Holmes, is the sword going to Egypt?"

"As is your wont, Watson, you have stumbled over the main problem facing us. Why indeed? That is the answer we seek, and fortunately we have time. The Hishouri Kamu, being of the tramp variety, is slow, with many ports of call on her schedule. Until she reaches Alexandria, the sword is completely safe and we are allowed a breathing spell."

"Which we certainly need," I began, but before I could expound further on this subject, Holmes interrupted as though in haste to clear the air and move to other matters.

"Spare me, good chap, a lament regarding questions breeding more questions. The sword exists, that we know. Chu San Fu has it, for we saw his minions steal it. We know where it is and where it is headed. Now we must find a connective link, for surely Egypt brings to your mind Mycroft's dead agent, his mention of Chu San Fu, and the unusual and ancient relic that he had secreted on his person."

"But was not Mycroft imbued with the idea of an ancient tomb? The prophet Mohammed antedates ancient Egypt not by centuries but by thousands of years."

"Three, at least," agreed Holmes. "You put it well, ol' fellow. We must think more on this."

When Holmes thought, he required facts to form a framework for his speculations. This meant research, and there is no searcher more detailed than the one who does not look for knowledge but augments knowledge already acquired. The latter is armed with the indispensable, for he knows where to look for what he seeks.

Our rooms at Baker Street, with the numerous case histories in which I took great pride, and Holmes's commonplace books along with the newspaper files, produced a semi-library atmosphere. This was augmented by an inflow of work on Egypt and the Valley of the Nile that captured all available table space, spilling over to piles on the floor that I tried to keep orderly. I recalled those early days when fate, in the form of my chance meeting with young Stamford at the Criterion Bar, had first thrown Holmes and me together. I had estimated his fund of knowledge in a rather cavalier manner. While conceding that he had a profound grip on chemistry and an immense familiarity with sensational literature, I had listed his understanding of philosophy and astronomy as nil and his grasp of politics as feeble.

Things had changed during the years. First my friend had become well versed in astronomy, spurred, no doubt, by the fact that the infamous Moriarty had penned The Dynamics of an Asteroid, which enjoyed a European vogue. Then his facile mind reached out into other fields, not all connected with the solution of crime. His ability to sustain feverish periods of intense mental activity allowed him, once his teeth were implanted in a subject, to stay with it until it was wrestled into a workable form with familiar features.

I had lived through Holmes's flirtation with medieval architecture as well as his romance with sixteenth century music, which climaxed in his monograph upon the polyphonic motets of Orlandus Lassus, considered by experts as the final word upon the subject. Now it was Egyptology that the sleuth was gripping by the throat, albeit it was not a choice dictated by whim but motivated by our activities of late. Possibly it was also a rebirth of a previous infatuation dating from his Montague Street days. Whatever, most hours found my friend immersed in some volume or another, more often three or more simultaneously.

Such was the retentiveness of his splendid mind that several days later he devoted our entire dinner hour to delivering a detailed recounting of Giovanni Balzoni's Egyptian and Nubian operations, a man unknown to Holmes a week before. Egyptian architecture, jewelry, religions of ancient Egypt, a number of suggestions as to how the pyramids were, constructed—the list was endless. Finally I chose to ignore the whole matter before I began to imagine desert sand in my food! Holmes was on an Egypt spin, and he was looking for something. Painfully obvious was the fact that he wasn't finding it.

However, all the ensuing days and nights were not sedentary. My friend had his pack sniffing upwind. One day, having concluded several patient calls, I wasted some time pleasantly with a medical friend at the Bagatelle Club bar. Then I chose to walk back to Baker Street. In the vicinity of the Strand, I spied Holmes standing under the awning of a book dealer, an open volume in hand. Next to him, also in a studious pose, was Slippery Styles. That they were conversing in monosyllables without moving their lips I was sure. A bookstore as a meeting place was a favorite device of Holmes's, and I now knew firsthand that he was keeping Chu San Fu under close observation.

Chapter Ten

Sir Randolph's News

Our Surrey adventure began to seem like a dream, for the activity associated with it came to such an abrupt end. I grew accustomed to Holmes's presence in our quarters, a rarity when a major case dominated his working calendar. Then one morning I rose somewhat early and found that he was gone. But he rejoined me as breakfast was being served, even disposing of a rasher of bacon with eggs and some of Mrs. Hudson's toothsome scones. His manner seemed grave, but I did not note the nervous restlessness that indicated he was at loose ends as regards an idea. Actually, he seemed resigned. I waited him out, and finally he chose to tidy up and package the recent days of seeming inaction.

"We have reached an impasse, Watson, one that a crash course in Egyptology has not bridged, nor have events as reported from our sources provided a clue. At the end of a tether as regards my own resources, I am forced to go elsewhere, and as a first move I visited the Diogenes Club this morning. Recall that Mycroft came to us at our request, so I returned the courtesy."

"And found your brother similarly bemused?" This was but a shot in the dark.

"Let us say that his concern has grown, not lessened. There have been a series of meetings. First in Afghanistan, then Babylonia, Syria, Palestine, Persia, and Arabia. These being religious gatherings, Mycroft's information is very sketchy. One meeting in the Grand Mosque in Damascus was extremely well attended and a lengthy affair. The main point is that a spirit of unrest is spreading in the east and heading, like the Sacred Sword, towards Egypt. Islam blended a hundred scattered races into one, but the religion is split into many sects, more than seventy-two to be exact. If some revelation, some apparent miracle, were to unite the followers of the Crescent, you can anticipate the possible results."

In a sudden flash of understanding, I spoke automatically.

"The second coming of the Prophet."

Holmes's nod of agreement was grim. "As another move towards assistance, I have secured an appointment with Sir Randolph Rapp. Are you free to accompany me this morning?"

I accepted this invitation with alacrity. The unusual household of said gentleman was extremely interesting to me, as was the man himself. His theories rather paralleled Holmes's thinking on certain matters, and his influence, though indirect and unsuspected, was enormous.

But as I prepared for our journey to Mayfair, another matter was brought to our attention. Wiggins, titular head of the Baker Street Irregulars, that motley group of juvenile street urchins that Holmes had recruited as his eyes and ears in the streets, came calling. The young rapscallion brought no news of his own but was the bearer of a message.

"The thin man sent this fer yuh, Mr. 'Olmes." Holmes took a handwritten note from Wiggins's grimy paw and, after reading it, dismissed his ally with thanks and a shilling.

"Slim's on the job, Watson," he murmured thoughtfully. "It would seem that Chu San Fu and his entourage will depart by private yacht for Venice within twenty-four hours."

"What sense does that make?"

"None, unless my memory has played me false." Holmes was beside the bookcase extracting a copy of Lloyd's Shipping Guide, which he riffled open. "I was right. The Hishouri Kamu does not touch at Venice or any other Italian port."

"The sword is en route to Egypt and the Chinaman to Italy. Has a new element been introduced into this overly complex matter?"

"Would that I could answer you, ol' fellow. Come, let us make for Mayfair. Having kept Chu San Fu in my sights till now, I don't intend to lose that advantage, so we may have a trip in store."

The Rapp estate in Mayfair seemed unchanged. Portions of the rambling house were visible through the trees, and the surrounding iron-spike fence provided an impressive barrier broken only by the driveway gate presided over by an occupied gate house. Being familiar with this unusual domicile, Holmes and I dismissed our hansom at the entrance and made ourselves known to the large, truculent-looking man who did not unlock the outer portal until we were identified. It clanged shut as soon as we walked through and began making our way towards the house.

Clumps of trees were effectively positioned to shield the residence from the street, but nothing grew near to the establishment save close-cut lawns. The area was as devoid of cover as the top of a billiard table. There was a chorus of low growls in the distance, and I knew the Doberman pinschers were nervously pacing their kennels. When the establishment was darkened for the night, the dogs would be let loose to roam between fence and house, and to walk then as we were now, without the presence of a known member of the household, would be akin to suicide. Randolph Rapp was important to the Empire, and considerable pains were taken to assure his safety and privacy.

When the butler, whose contours were those of a regimental blacksmith, ushered us within, Holmes and I were again observers of a picture of tasteful English home life. Costly Oriental rugs chose at intervals to modestly reveal highly polished floorboards before resuming their figured designs. The pristine white glove of an admiral of the fleet could have been run over any piece of furniture in the brightly lit drawing room without surfacing a dust mote or dirt particle. The logs in the fireplace and those in the attendant wood basket were of uniform size and cut, and I felt they would not dare allow a secretion of sap to flare or pop. Paintings were hung in precisely the right places as though positioned to the centimeter. Two large oils bore the imprint of John Everett Millais, and surely that was a Bellini over the great couch.

If the drawing room and entrance reflected the meticulous taste of the most proper Amanda Rapp, Sir Randolph's study, to which we were led, had to be his sanctum sanctorum and an untidy one at that.

As the butler retreated, the former professor, now motivational specialist, rose from behind his large desk, which was festooned with notes, letters, and reports in a helter-skelter manner. His ruddy face, rounded and smiling, emerged from an oversized head crowned by a shock of unruly hair. He was short, and his balloon-like body bounced as he came towards us, from his work area, on bandy legs.

"Ah, Holmes," he said, extending his hand. "Always delighted! Do sit down." Indicating a leather couch, worn in spots, a short distance from his overflowing desk, he seized my hand in both of his. His short, spatulate fingers, like those of a pianist, were strong. "And, my good Watson. You both look fit."

Leading me to a somewhat lumpy easy chair, he indicated humidors containing cigars and tobacco that were in evidence round the room. There was a jade case on his desk from which he extracted a long Egyptian cigarette. The index finger of his right hand was marred by a nicotine stain, which he suddenly seemed to notice, picking at it in an absent-minded fashion as he reseated himself.

I lit up one of Rapp's rum-soaked cigars with appreciation as the professor shoved papers aside, merely increasing the confusion. He gestured towards it with a sigh.

"Order is the virtue of the mediocre. Can't recall who said that, but the idea gives me comfort." He retrieved his cigarette, puffing on it. "But what has been happening in your active lives? You fellows get round a mite whilst I am chained here."

Holmes and I knew this wasn't true, and Rapp knew that we knew it. When it suited him, he wandered at will through government offices, and few indeed were the files not open to him. As like as not after one of his forays into what he called "the outside world," a series of reports would emanate from the very room we were sitting in and find their way by official courier to departmental heads, frequently with a shake-up as the result.

"Have you," questioned Holmes, "been privy to reports from the Middle East of late?"

"Sent to me by your brother," was the reply that accompanied an affirmative nod. "Bad show, that. Especially the gathering in the Grand Mosque of Damascus. Present were at least seven of the leading Islamics. When factions begin to agree, watch out! Especially the followers of Mohammed, for the Bedouin has always loved violence."

Preambles were wasted on one such as Randolph Rapp, and Holmes was delighted to dispense with them.

"If the diverse Islamic sects are untied by some miracle, the jihad, the holy war that they cry for, could result."

"Islam ... La illah il'allah," entoned Rapp.

"It's the miracle I'm searching for."

"There is the Sacred Sword."

I must have given a start of surprise, and Rapp favored me with a gentle smile.

"It was not long ago that I inquired of Holmes as to the disappearance of Captain Spaulding. Now, with a Mid East outbreak threatening, I must assume that you have considered the sword as a tool to stir the masses."

"My brother runs to the theory of an undiscovered tomb, and there is tangible evidence to back him."

"Also good thinking," replied Rapp crisply. "I see where his mind is going."

There was a pause, and I could not let this statement dangle.

"Well, I certainly don't."

"Consider . . . Watson, the matter of the Mahdi." Rapp's tone did me the courtesy of not sounding tolerant. "The outbreak he instigated is of recent vintage. The Mahdi got away with the prophet deception because of a resemblance, especially the construction of his teeth and the lisp. Even primitive minds bent on pillage and plunder will not respond to the same stimulus twice. Mycroft Holmes pictures a movement based on something more conclusive than a zealot waving a sword."

"An ancient prophecy, perhaps?" said Sherlock Holmes. "The very word 'ancient' leads us to Egypt."

Rapp seemed intrigued. "That cradle of civilization had a plethora of gods, but even among them, there was a one-god reformer. Ikhnaton, in the fourteenth century before Christ, banned all other deities in favor of Aton, the sun god. However, he was no Mohammed, and his monotheistic attempt failed. Upon his death, worship of the old gods returned, and the Egyptians attempted to eradicate that particular pharaoh from their history. I don't really know if his one-god faith lived on a bit or not."

"You don't?" I asked.

Despite my many years with Holmes, there was always the element of surprise when he confessed to being baffled. In a similar vein, to hear Randolph Rapp in doubt about anything made my eyebrows jump.

The professor was shaking his head. "There are still so many things we do not know. Especially about Egypt."

"But I thought the Rosetta Stone—" I began.

"Oh yes. One of Napoleon's soldiers discovers a black basalt tablet that provides the key to the deciphering of the hieroglyphics and the rediscovery of the culture of ancient Egypt. Quite amazing, but not completely satisfying. We have never been able to decipher the hieroglyphics of Crete, Watson, which may predate those of Egypt. Aztec and Mayan inscriptions remain a puzzle. In a similar manner there are the so-called secret writings."

Holmes was leaning forward on the couch.

"This is something new," he admitted.

"It is reasonably certain that they originally were in the pyramids, though possibly later tombs from which they were stolen, for they were inscribed on tablets of gold. But some have shown up through the centuries. As to their message, who knows?" Rapp shrugged and then another thought intruded.

"There is one chap, Howard Andrade, who I'm told has cracked the riddle. He based his study on the Cretan hieroglyphics, using them as a basis or key to the cuneiform symbols of the secret writings. Evidently he has succeeded."

"But," I said, "if this Andrade fellow has deciphered an ancient form of writing, wouldn't there be a bit of a stir? I'd think the journals would pounce on it."

"Dear me, no!" protested Rapp. "Things move a bit slower in the field of antiquity. Andrade is a brilliant chap. I'm inclined to believe he has pulled it off. But he will make no claims until he has absolute proof. Remember, every other Egyptologist will desperately try to prove him wrong simply because they haven't deciphered the secret writings themselves."

"A competitive field."

"Ruled by pride," agreed Rapp. "Andrade removed himself from the country to complete his research. Doesn't want his near-triumph to leak out. Last I heard he was living in Venice."

I almost jumped out of my chair, and even Holmes had the good grace to register surprise.

"Venice, you say?"

"I do, never expecting this reaction. Here we are discussing ancient religions and a potential holy war, then of a sudden you give every indication of going somewhere."

"We are," said Holmes. "To Venice."

Chapter Eleven

Adventure in Venice

Of course, it was not as simple as that. Holmes had other questions regarding Andrade to pose to Randolph Rapp, and on our return to Baker Street messages flowed from his pen. But on the following day, we resumed our travels, nothing new to one associated with the greatest man-hunter of all time.

Holmes, for no reason that I could fathom, chose to take the train to Dover, and from there the steamer to Belgium. In the great harbor station at Ostend, he conferred at some length with the stationmaster, a meeting to which I was not privy. Being a bad sailor, I was attempting to sip some passable tea and consume dry biscuits with no great success. My stomach was not in the best condition, and the table at the station restaurant where my friend left me seemed disposed to tilt on occasion, purely an illusion.

When the sleuth fetched me, the stationmaster was by his side with a veritable sheaf of rail tickets and an enthusiastic expression on his face. I knew what that meant Holmes's knowledge of rail traffic had suggested a varied route festooned with connections, which had positively enthralled the stationmaster who would certainly wire ahead to assure us of superior service during our journey. It was a procedure that Holmes had followed on previous cases. Whatever strange stations we dropped off at to await an inbound train, whatever intricate route we followed, we were certain to arrive in Venice in the shortest possible time. Holmes's travel plans invariably depended on perfect timing, which was always forthcoming. In the minds of Anglo-Saxons, possibly other races as well, there lurks the tendency to attribute a personality and sex to inanimate objects, even such awesome things as thundering locomotives. The beautiful Blue Train to the south of France has always seemed feminine to me, whereas the luxurious Orient Express is associated with the masculine gender. If, amidst the pistons and wheels of a great train, there lurks a smidgen of soul, I know of a certainty that it is aware of the presence of Sherlock Holmes and would never dare be behind schedule when carrying the master sleuth. Call me mad, but the results bear out my fancy, and after four changes en route, we arrived at the pearl of the Adriatic in an amazingly short time indeed. The St. Lucia railway station was as irrational as ever, but Holmes had us out of it and into a suite in the Venezia Hotel on the Grand Canal in short order.

During our rush through western Europe and down the boot of Italy, one thing was glaringly obvious. Our route had been relayed to others, for cables had arrived for Holmes at various stations during the trip. He did not choose to make me privy to all of their contents, but I gathered that Howard Andrade resided in a private home on the Rio di San Canciano. I assumed Holmes had made arrangements to approach the gentleman, since this seemed his intent, but my native curiosity as to his methods and plans was diverted by my queasy stomach and travel fatigue. Once installed in the Venezia with assurances from my friend that nothing would happen of an immediate nature, I devoted myself to the healing arms of Morpheus and, in early evening, awoke considerably refreshed and feeling quite the new man.

Holmes was pacing the sitting room, clad in his purple robe and puffing on his pipe, giving no indication of fatigue from our journey. I sensed that he had not rested since our arrival and confirmed this thought when I spied the butt of a thin Mexican cigar in an ashtray.

"Orloff has been here!" I cried instinctively. My friend's eyes twinkled. "Watson, what a delight! You spy the only clue to the presence of our somewhat sinister friend in a trice. Truly, our years together have not been wasted."

"But what is he doing here?" I snapped my fingers suddenly. "Ah ha! You contacted your brother, and Wakefield Orloff followed us to Italy."

"I certainly contacted Mycroft after our interesting meeting with Randolph Rapp. However, this led to a trading of information. He was most interested to learn that Chu San Fu is en route here via yacht. After a bit of prodding he revealed that Orloff has been in Venice for some time keeping an eye on Howard Andrade, the expert on ancient writings."

I was regarding the sleuth with knitted brows. "You mean, your brother anticipated Chu San Fu's trip to Venice?"

"Not at all, but Mycroft has been captivated with the idea of something in Egypt being at the bottom of the Mid East unrest. He knew of Howard Andrade's work on the secret writings of the pharaohs, and very reasonably put two and two together."

"Holmes, you'll have to be more specific than that."

"Then I must blend fact with conjecture," he replied, his hands clasped behind him as he strode the length of the room and back again. "The ominous meetings of Moslem leaders being fact. As to what has stirred the Mid East cauldron, we must look for some new element, some occurrence out of the ordinary that has brought these various factions together at this specific time. If the catalyst is in Egypt, conjecture leads us to Andrade. If he has decoded the secret writings, that is certainly new and could lead to additional breakthroughs in the unraveling of the history of the ancient civilization. Remember, Watson, it was but in 1822 that the Frenchman, Champollion, using the Rosetta stone as his key, cracked the hieroglyphics. Since Egypt's history was recorded in stone and preserved by the unique dry climate, Champollion's discovery allowed modern scholars to learn more about life in ancient Egypt than we know of our own original Saxons. The Rosetta Stone was discovered in 1799, but it took almost a quarter of a century before that black lump of basalt fulfilled its destiny."

I realized that I was shaking my head. "I'm a little vague on that, Holmes. As I recall from school days, there were some fourteen lines of hieroglyphics and fifty or so lines of Greek based on them. Since the Greek message was a translation of the ancient carvings, what took so long?"

"Actually, the message was in three forms, Watson. It included thirty-two lines of common demotic script, but that's not important. The difficulty in decoding the hieroglyphics lay in the fact that some of the signs are alphabetic, some phonetic, while others simply represent ideas. Trying to translate ideas is a bit of a problem, is it not? Lot of guesswork involved."

"Now about those secret writings, can we not assume that they were composed in part or whole by the rulers themselves, privy because of their position and authority to the as-yet-unrevealed secrets of the land of the Nile? The Rosetta Stone recorded a decree by priests of Memphis praising the pharaoh Ptolemy Fifth some two hundred years before Christ. Little of importance there. But what if one of the golden tablets, as yet undeciphered, dates back three thousand years before Christ and contains the secret of the Khufu pyramid?"

"What secret?" I said instinctively. "King Khufu, or Cheops in Greek, built the great pyramid, ol' chap. It's size alone is staggering, but its orientation is truly amazing. The mass of stone covers thirteen acres, and its sides run almost exactly to the cardinal compass points. Its deviation from true north is but five arc minutes. Such an alignment could not happen simply by chance. Do you know the shadow it casts can be used as a calendar, and an accurate one at that?"

Holmes's eyes were burning as he spoke, and it took no genius to realize that he was, for the moment, caught up in the myriad of unanswered questions of ancient Egypt. I mentally chided myself for a clod. What more reasonable that the solver of mysteries would be captivated by the greatest puzzle in the history of mankind! My own poor brain was dazzled by the thought of a civilization, predating ours by five thousand years, that could construct edifices so colossal as to defy the skills of our mechanical age! The light faded from Holmes's eyes to be replaced by the cold, analytic look that grounded his flight into the mysterious fantasies conjured up by the pharaohs of so long ago.

"But come, Watson, our duties are of a more practical nature. Either Andrade has cracked the carvings of the ruling class or he has not, and we'd best find out. Wakefield Orloff has arranged an appointment with the hieroglyphics expert, who lives but a short distance away."

Outside the hotel Holmes secured a gondola for us, which I regarded with some trepidation. The waters of the Grand Canal were as smooth as glass, and my erratic stomach was of no concern. However, the thirty-two-foot craft leaned to the left, by design of course, and being only five foot in width it did not appear seaworthy to me. However, similar vessels studded the waters of the canal, and I overcame my reservations and gingerly gained a seat as Holmes directed the gondolier, who promptly put us in motion with his single oar.

The small craft had a unique rhythm, not unpleasant, and I actually began to enjoy our journey, though convinced that this type of conveyance would never replace the dependable hansom. There was considerable traffic, but our oarsman was skillful. Holmes pointed out some truly striking mansions on the Riva del Vin, and then I spied the Rialto Bridge. It was an imposing stone span over the Canal that inspired a sinking feeling within me as we made for it.

"I say, Holmes, that bridge has shops on it."

"Two rows, old fellow, and well trafficked."

"But the thing's overloaded! It will collapse on us."

"Rest easy, Watson. It does seem a bit inelegant, but gondolas like ours have been sailing under it safely since 1591."

This silenced me and reassured me as well. Shortly after passing under the Rialto Bridge, we abandoned the Grand Canal for the San Canciano, on which the Egyptologist lived. This being a much smaller canal, there were frequent stone footbridges that curved overhead as we moved down its still waters. The houses on both sides were private dwellings of varied heights and designs though universally constructed of stone.

Our destination proved to be of two stories with its main entrance on the Rio di San Canciano and one side facing a tributary canal. There was no porch or float and, of course, no sidewalks. One simply rowed to the front door and stepped into a small vestibule. At the corner of the house was a bow window overhanging the quiet waters of the canal and sufficiently different from the general architecture to catch my eye. Some thoughtful builder had conceived of a view of both the canals the house faced on, and a pleasant sight of an evening it must provide.

Holmes instructed our gondolier to await our return and knocked on the impressive door. I noted that the adjacent house had ivy growing on its outer surface, which was dotted with small stone balconies from which tendrils of vines dangled, providing a pleasing, slightly bohemian look. Everywhere there were curved arches, stone overhangs, and the general appearance of well-tended, though ancient, construction. Many of the buildings must have been at least three hundred years old, I thought, perhaps older. They had to take good care of the stonework, for Holmes had mentioned that seasonal high tides sometimes raised the level of the water to the first story. Doors must be jolly well tight set, I thought as the one in front of us opened. I did not know what I expected to find on the other side, possibly a servant or the Egyptologist we wished to contact, but here was a familiar and welcome face: the straight nose, the small, military moustache, and the moon-shaped visage of the portly and deadly Wakefield Orloff. Those fathomless green eyes defrosted with an alien warmth as they flitted over us and, by habit, checked our backtrail. Then the security agent stepped to one side, indicating for us to enter. We were constantly meeting, usually in unusual places, and greetings were superfluous. Ever since the matter of the Louvre robbery so brilliantly handled by Holmes, Orloff had been ranked as an associate, and I was always grateful for his presence, which carried with it an insurance value as sound as the pound sterling.

"Gentlemen," said Orloff, in his low, mild voice, "this is Howard Andrade."

A figure leaning over a huge table turned towards us and, with a departing glance at the subject of his scrutiny, crossed in our direction. The Egyptologist was beardless, with flaxen hair streaked here and there with gray and a broad, pink, good-humored face. His waistcoat had apparently given up its efforts to compass his girth, but he moved quickly enough and his handshake was firm.

"Mr. Holmes, of course, and this must be Doctor Watson, whose words have provided many a fascinating hour. I'm honored, gentlemen."

It was immediately obvious to me that Andrade was a splendid fellow. As he indicated available chairs in the very large room in which we stood, I surveyed the interior of this quaint Italian house. That the hieroglyphics expert or a predecessor had instituted extensive remodeling was apparent. The walls to what had to be a combined living room and study rose two stories to an ornamental plaster ceiling that was quite magnificent.

There were numerous bookcases well filled as befitted the home of a scholar. The south wall was interesting indeed, containing a first-story gallery running the depth of the house and reached by a curved staircase. Off the upper landing, guarded by a wooden balustrade, was but one door, and I assumed that the master bedchamber was there. Windows, which formerly served the original first story, now provided two rows of apertures for the large central chamber. During the day, I imagined, the area was brightly lit by sunlight even though there were no windows in the walls other than the one that constituted the front of the house. Behind us and to the right of the entrance door must be the kitchen facilities, possibly servants' quarters as well, I thought. The remainder, save for that portion of the first floor facing onto the gallery, was one large open room lit by chandeliers and with Hepplewhite furniture tastefully positioned. The walls were festooned with pictures, all of Egyptian scenes. There was a delightful feeling of space. The room was dominated by the oaken table Andrade had been at when we arrived. It was strewn with pictures, calipers, dividers, parallel rules, and other equipment that I could not recognize. I sensed that Andrade worked mainly on his feet, circling the table that was the focus of his area of activity.

Having seated his visitors, Andrade leaned against the table and surveyed us with a half-smile.

"I came, Mr. Holmes, to Venice to insure privacy and must admit that I was a bit put out when Mr. Orloff appeared on the scene." He shot a quick look at our friend, who was in the process of lighting one of the thin Mexican cigars that he fancied.

"However, his credentials were so impressive that I could not refuse him an audience, and a good thing, too, since he has done me a great service." Andrade's eyes shifted to a pile of photographs on the table and then he moved to sink, somewhat slowly, into a large armchair. "Then he requested that I meet with you, Mr. Holmes and Doctor Watson. Now, I would be a dullard indeed if I did not think that a visit from the world's foremost detective is connected with the Egyptian research I'm involved in."

"It is," replied Holmes. "My—our—investigations are not of an archaeological nature, but they do seem to point to Egypt, and you are the first new element in hieroglyphics since Champollion."

Andrade's full lips twisted in a slight grimace. "The Frenchman gets all the credit. Not that he doesn't deserve it, you know. Positive genius. Spoke Latin, Greek, and Hebrew by the age of eleven. Mastered Arabic, Syrian, Chaldean, and Coptic in two years. However, our own Thomas Young is rather overlooked. It was he who deduced that in hieroglyphics the royal names were inscribed in oval frames."

"Cartouches," said the sleuth.

The Egyptologist's eyes brightened and he regarded Holmes with even more respect.

"Exactly, sir. You have a familiarity with the subject. But I take us from the matter at hand. You want to know if I have been successful in decoding the secret writings."

"That's it," replied Holmes.

Andrade stirred uncomfortably in his chair. "Of course, you understand that our discussion is highly confidential. Later this year I will deliver an address to a group of skeptical and, in many cases, antagonistic colleagues. It will serve my purposes best if they are not aware of my full revelations. Then I intend to publish a paper that might have the same reception as Champollion's 'Letter to M. Dacier in regard to the alphabet of the phonetic hieroglyphics.'" His mouth pursed for a moment and then he gave vent to a sigh of resignation. "Well, not quite as earth-shaking, since Champollion was first. No matter, I can give you an answer for the first time."

As though the thought of his quest produced a sudden surge of energy, Andrade rose from his chair and crossed nervously to the table. Turning, he slid his posterior onto its surface. Had he crossed his legs beneath him, there would have been a resemblance to a seated Buddha. His arms behind him, he leaned back and there was a creak of protest from the oak, but the table was stoutly constructed. Andrade's eyes had an almost dreamy look as though he was reliving the work of years, which in fact he was.

"It was the temple of Abu Simbel that first aroused the curiosity of scholars, myself included. It lies a hundred miles south of Karnak and is the largest monolithic sculpture in the world. The temple is cut into a solid sandstone cliff, and its facade is covered with huge effigies of Rameses Second. Inside the temple, in the inner sanctuary, is another statue of Rameses Second, and underneath it a number of inscriptions that have defied translation. Thomas Young became intrigued with the idea of another form of hieroglyphics, and this theory, to which I subscribed, was buttressed by certain golden tablets that had shown up. They are very rare. Grave robbers must have melted them down in times gone by. Then, with the coming of our modern era, they realized that the genuine article was worth much more to a great museum or wealthy collector than the basic worth of the precious metal."

"Three of the tablets are in the possession of the Egyptian Museum, and I have seen copies of the inscriptions but never the tablets. In the beginning, all I had to work with were the inscriptions at Abu Simbel. I did decode the secret writing, developing certain ideas of Young, but that's another story. What I needed desperately was confirmation of my findings. Now it is common knowledge in the field that Giovanni Balzoni, the Italian archaeologist and adventurer, came upon two more golden tablets not long before his death early in the century. He got them out of Egypt, for things were very easygoing in those days, but they disappeared. Then they turned up fifty years later and were purchased by Mannheim, the great German collector. Since they were the only golden tablets outside of Egypt, Mannheim made quite a fuss about his acquisition, and they were stolen from him and have not reappeared to this day."

I could not contain myself any longer. "But what have these ancient tablets to do with your discovery?" I asked. Happily, Andrade seemed to welcome my question.

"Proof positive, Doctor Watson. I have translated the Rameses inscriptions along with all the copies of the known tablets that I could secure, but I needed more material to work on."

He waved a large hand in the direction of Wakefield Orloff. "It was here that this gentleman came to my aid."

Holmes was regarding the security agent with surprise.

"Don't tell me that in such a short time you located the Mannheim tablets?"

As Orloff laid aside his cigar, it was Andrade who fielded the conversational ball.

"Almost as good, Mr. Holmes. He secured photographs of them."

Andrade slid off the table and spread a pile of large photographs on its surface.

"Here, gentlemen, are pictures of the Mannheim tablets, which I have translated as conclusive proof that the riddle of the secret writings is no more."

We all clustered round the table. The pictures were of rows of inscriptions taken from various angles. To me they were but a series of carvings bearing no relation to a written language, but Holmes seemed intrigued and Andrade was positively bubbling with joy as he pointed to various lines of ancient text.

Holmes's eyes had gone to Wakefield Orloff. "Rather nice piece of work, this," he said, indicating the photographs. "How did you get them?"

There was a fleeting shadow of self-satisfaction on Orloff's impassive face.

"Memory helped. I recalled that Mannheim is a great believer in pictures, most often of himself, and in the newspapers whenever possible. He is no shrinking violet. His photographer, Werdelin of Berlin, was evidently influenced by his greatest patron because he is a collector as well. Of photographs. I had some dealings with the gentleman once and knew that invariably when on a big job he made copies of his work, which he carefully filed."

"So you went to Berlin and secured the copies in Werdelin's files," said Holmes.

"He owed me a favor," was the security agent's reply, accompanied by his quiet smile.

"In any case, with the pictures I saw the end of the road," continued Andrade. "I have been at work for thirty-six hours, gentlemen. My poor assistant gave up the ghost three hours ago and is in my room upstairs in an exhausted sleep. To be frank, I don't feel the slightest fatigue."

"The adrenalin of victory," I stated automatically.