THE MEMOIRS OF SHERLOCK HOLMES
by
Arthur Conan Doyle

Silver Blaze

Chapter 11

The  Dead  Man’s  Wife

“Perhaps you would prefer
at once to go on
to the scene
of the crime,
Mr. Holmes?”
said Gregory.

“I think that
I should prefer
to stay here
a little
and go into
one or two questions
of detail.

Straker was brought back here,
I presume?”

“Yes; he lies upstairs.
The inquest
is tomorrow.”

“He has been
in your service some years,
Colonel Ross?”

“I have always found him
an excellent servant.”

“I presume
that you made
an inventory
of what he had
in his pockets
at the time
of his death,
Inspector?”

“I have the things
themselves
in the sitting-room,
if you would
care to see them.”

“I should be very glad.”
We all filed
into the front room
and sat round
the central table
while the Inspector
unlocked a square tin box
and laid a small heap
of things before us.

There was
a box of vestas,
two inches
of tallow candle,
an A.D.P. briar-root pipe,
a pouch of seal-skin
with half an ounce
of long-cut Cavendish,
a silver watch
with a gold chain,
five sovereigns in gold,
an aluminium
pencil-case,
a few papers,
and an ivory-handled knife
with a very delicate,
inflexible blade
marked Weiss & Co.,
London.

“This is a very
singular knife,”
said Holmes,
lifting it up and
examining it minutely.

“I presume,
as I see blood-stains upon it,
that it is the one
which was found
in the dead man’s grasp.

Watson,
this knife is surely
in your line?”

“It is what we call
a cataract knife,”
said I.

“I thought so.

A very delicate blade
devised for
very delicate work.

A strange thing
for a man
to carry with him
upon a rough
expedition,
especially as it would
not shut in his pocket.”

“The tip was guarded
by a disk of cork
which we found
beside his body,”
said the Inspector.

“His wife tells us
that the knife
had lain upon
the dressing-table,
and that he had
picked it up
as he left the room.

It was a poor weapon,
but perhaps
the best that he
could lay his hands on
at the moment.”

“Very possible.
How about
these papers?”

“Three of them
are receipted
hay-dealers’ accounts.

One of them
is a letter
of instructions
from Colonel Ross.

This other
is a milliner’s account
for thirty-seven pounds fifteen
made out by
Madame Lesurier,
of Bond Street,
to William Derbyshire.

Mrs. Straker tells us
that Derbyshire
was a friend
of her husband’s
and that occasionally
his letters
were addressed here.”

“Madam Derbyshire
had somewhat
expensive tastes,”
remarked Holmes,
glancing down
the account.

“Twenty-two guineas
is rather heavy
for a single costume.

However
there appears
to be nothing
more to learn,
and we may now
go down
to the scene
of the crime.”

As we emerged
from the sitting-room
a woman,
who had been waiting
in the passage,
took a step forward
and laid her hand
upon the
inspector’s sleeve.

Her face was haggard
and thin and eager,
stamped with
the print
of a recent horror.

“Have you got them?
Have you found them?”
she panted.

“No, Mrs. Straker.
But Mr. Holmes here
has come from London
to help us,
and we shall do
all that is possible.”

“Surely I met you
in Plymouth
at a garden-party
some little time
ago, Mrs. Straker?”
said Holmes.

“No, sir;
you are mistaken.”

“Dear me!
Why, I could have
sworn to it.

You wore a costume
of dove-colored silk
with ostrich-feather trimming.”

“I never had
such a dress, sir,”
answered the lady.

“Ah, that quite settles it,”
said Holmes.

And with an apology
he followed
the Inspector outside.

End of Chapter 11

Chapter 12

A short walk
across the moor
took us to
the hollow
in which the body
had been found.

At the brink of it
was the furze-bush
upon which
the coat
had been hung.

“There was no wind
that night,
I understand,”
said Holmes.

“None;
but very heavy rain.”

“In that case
the overcoat
was not blown against
the furze-bush,
but placed there.”

“Yes, it was laid
across the bush.”

“You fill me with interest,
I perceive that
the ground
has been trampled up
a good deal.

No doubt
many feet
have been here
since Monday night.”

“A piece of matting
has been laid here
at the side,
and we have
all stood upon that.”

“Excellent.”

“In this bag
I have one of the boots
which Straker wore,
one of Fitzroy Simpson’s shoes,
and a cast horseshoe
of Silver Blaze.”

“My dear Inspector,
you surpass yourself!”
Holmes took the bag,
and, descending into the hollow,
he pushed the matting
into a more central position.

Then stretching himself
upon his face and
leaning his chin
upon his hands,
he made a careful study
of the trampled mud
in front of him.

“Hullo!”
said he, suddenly.

“What’s this?”
It was a wax vesta
half burned,
which was so coated
with mud
that it looked at first
like a little chip
of wood.

“I cannot think
how I came
to overlook it,”
said the Inspector,
with an expression
of annoyance.

“It was invisible,
buried in the mud.
I only saw it
because I was
looking for it.”

“What!
You expected to find it?”

“I thought it
not unlikely.”

He took the boots from the bag,
and compared the impressions of
each of them with marks upon the ground.

Then he clambered up to
the rim of the hollow,
and crawled about
among the ferns
and bushes.

“I am afraid
that there are
no more tracks,”
said the Inspector.

“I have examined the ground
very carefully for a hundred yards
in each direction.”

“Indeed!”
said Holmes, rising.

“I should not have
the impertinence
to do it again
after what you say.

But I should like
to take a little walk
over the moor
before it grows dark,
that I may know
my ground tomorrow,
and I think that I shall
put this horseshoe
into my pocket
for luck.”

Colonel Ross,
who had shown
some signs of impatience
at my companion’s quiet
and systematic method
of work,
glanced at his watch.

“I wish you would
come back with me, Inspector,”
said he.

“There are several points
on which
I should like your advice,
and especially
as to whether
we do not owe it
to the public
to remove our horse’s name
from the entries
for the Cup.”

“Certainly not,”
cried Holmes,
with decision.

“I should let the
name stand.”

The Colonel bowed.

“I am very glad
to have had
your opinion, sir,”
said he.

“You will find us
at poor Straker’s house
when you
have finished your walk,
and we can drive together
into Tavistock.”

He turned back
with the Inspector,
while Holmes
and I walked
slowly across the moor.

The sun was beginning
to sink behind the
stables of Mapleton,
and the long,
sloping plain in front of us
was tinged with gold,
deepening into rich,
ruddy browns
where the
faded ferns and brambles
caught the evening light.

But the glories
of the landscape
were all wasted
upon my companion,
who was sunk
in the deepest thought.

“It’s this way,
Watson,”
said he at last.

“We may leave the
question of who killed John Straker for the instant, and confine
ourselves to finding out what has become of the horse.

Now,
supposing that he broke away during or after the tragedy,
where could he have gone to?

The horse is a very gregarious creature.

If left to himself his instincts
would have been either to return
to King’s Pyland or go over to Mapleton.

Why should he run wild
upon the moor?

He would surely have been seen by now.

And why
should gypsies kidnap him?

These people always clear out when
they hear of trouble,
for they do not wish to be pestered
by the police.

They could not hope to sell such a horse.

They would run
a great risk and gain nothing by taking him. Surely that is
clear.”

“Where is he, then?”

“I have already said
that he must have gone to King’s Pyland or
to Mapleton.

He is not at King’s Pyland.

Therefore he is at

Mapleton.

Let us take that as a working hypothesis
and see what
it leads us to.

This part of the moor,
as the Inspector remarked,
is very hard and dry.

But it falls away towards Mapleton,
and you
can see from here that there is a long hollow over yonder,
which must have been
very wet on Monday night.

If our supposition is
correct,
then the horse must have crossed that,
and there is the
point where we should look for his tracks.”

We had been walking briskly during this conversation,
and a few
more minutes brought us to the hollow in question.

At Holmes’
request I walked down the bank to the right,
and he to the left,
but I had not taken fifty paces
before I heard him give a shout,
and saw him waving his hand to me. The track of a horse was plainly outlined in the soft earth in front of him,
and the shoe
which he took from his pocket
exactly fitted the impression.

“See the value of imagination,”
said Holmes.
“It is the one
quality which Gregory lacks.

We imagined what might have
happened,
acted upon the supposition,
and find ourselves
justified.

Let us proceed.”

We crossed the marshy bottom
and passed over
a quarter of a mile
of dry, hard turf.

Again the ground sloped,
and again we came on
the tracks.

Then we lost them
for half a mile,
but only to pick
them up once more quite close to Mapleton.

It was Holmes who saw
them first,
and he stood pointing
with a look of triumph upon his
face.

A man’s track was visible
beside the horse’s.

“The horse was alone before,”
I cried.

“Quite so.
It was alone before.
Hullo, what is this?”

The double track
turned sharp off
and took the direction
of King’s Pyland.

Holmes whistled,
and we both followed along after
it.

His eyes were on the trail,
but I happened to look a little
to one side,
and saw to my surprise the same tracks coming back again in the opposite direction.

“One for you, Watson,”
said Holmes,
when I pointed it out.

“You have saved us
a long walk,
which would have brought us back on
our own traces.

Let us follow the return track.”

We had not to go far.

It ended at the paving of asphalt which led
up to the gates of the Mapleton stables.

As we approached, a
groom ran out from them.

“We don’t want any loiterers
about here,”
said he.

“I only wished to ask a question,”
said Holmes,
with his finger
and thumb in his waistcoat pocket.

“Should I be too early to see
your master,
Mr. Silas Brown,
if I were to call at five o’clock
to-morrow morning?”

“Bless you, sir,
if any one is about he will be,
for he is always
the first stirring.

But here he is, sir,
to answer your questions
for himself.

No, sir, no; it is as much as my place is worth to
let him see me touch your money.

Afterwards, if you like.”

As Sherlock Holmes replaced the half-crown which he had drawn
from his pocket,
a fierce-looking elderly man strode out from the
gate with a hunting-crop swinging in his hand.

“What’s this, Dawson!”
he cried.
“No gossiping!
Go about your
business!
And you,
what the devil
do you want here?”

“Ten minutes’ talk with you,
my good sir,”
said Holmes in the
sweetest of voices.

“I’ve no time
to talk to every gadabout.

We want no strangers
here.

Be off,
or you may find a dog at your heels.”

Holmes leaned forward
and whispered something in the trainer’s
ear.

He started violently and flushed to the temples.

“It’s a lie!”
he shouted,
“an infernal lie!”

“Very good.
Shall we argue about it here in public or talk it
over in your parlour?”

“Oh, come in if you wish to.”

Holmes smiled.
“I shall not keep you more than a few minutes,
Watson,” said he.
“Now, Mr. Brown, I am quite at your disposal.”

It was twenty minutes, and the reds had all faded into greys
before Holmes and the trainer reappeared.

Never have I seen such
a change as had been brought about in Silas Brown in that short
time.

His face was ashy pale,
beads of perspiration shone upon
his brow, and his hands shook until the hunting-crop wagged like
a branch in the wind. His bullying, overbearing manner was all
gone too, and he cringed along at my companion’s side like a dog
with its master.

“Your instructions will be done.
It shall all be done,” said he.

“There must be no mistake,”
said Holmes,
looking round at him.

The other winced
as he read the menace in his eyes.

“Oh no, there shall be no mistake.

It shall be there.

Should I
change it first or not?”

Holmes thought a little and then burst out laughing. No, don’t,”
said he;
“I shall write to you about it.
No tricks, now, or—”

“Oh, you can trust me, you can trust me!”

“Yes, I think I can.
Well, you shall hear from me to-morrow.”
He
turned upon his heel,
disregarding the trembling hand which the
other held out to him, and we set off for King’s Pyland.

“A more perfect compound of the bully,
coward, and sneak than
Master Silas Brown I have seldom met with,” remarked Holmes as we
trudged along together.

“He has the horse, then?”

“He tried to bluster out of it,
but I described to him so exactly
what his actions had been upon that morning that he is convinced
that I was watching him. Of course you observed the peculiarly
square toes in the impressions, and that his own boots exactly
corresponded to them. Again, of course no subordinate would have
dared to do such a thing. I described to him how, when according
to his custom he was the first down, he perceived a strange horse
wandering over the moor. How he went out to it, and his
astonishment at recognising, from the white forehead which has
given the favourite its name, that chance had put in his power
the only horse which could beat the one upon which he had put his
money. Then I described how his first impulse had been to lead
him back to King’s Pyland, and how the devil had shown him how he
could hide the horse until the race was over, and how he had led
it back and concealed it at Mapleton. When I told him every
detail he gave it up and thought only of saving his own skin.”

“But his stables had been searched?”

“Oh, an old horse-faker like him has many a dodge.”

“But are you not afraid to leave the horse in his power now,
since he has every interest in injuring it?”

“My dear fellow, he will guard it as the apple of his eye.

He
knows that his only hope of mercy is to produce it safe.”

“Colonel Ross did not impress me as a man who would be likely to
show much mercy in any case.”

“The matter does not rest with Colonel Ross. I follow my own
methods, and tell as much or as little as I choose. That is the
advantage of being unofficial. I don’t know whether you observed
it, Watson, but the Colonel’s manner has been just a trifle
cavalier to me. I am inclined now to have a little amusement at
his expense. Say nothing to him about the horse.”

“Certainly not without your permission.”

“And of course this is all quite a minor point compared to the
question of who killed John Straker.”

“And you will devote yourself to that?”

“On the contrary, we both go back to London by the night train.”

I was thunderstruck by my friend’s words. We had only been a few
hours in Devonshire, and that he should give up an investigation
which he had begun so brilliantly was quite incomprehensible to
me. Not a word more could I draw from him until we were back at
the trainer’s house. The Colonel and the Inspector were awaiting
us in the parlour.

“My friend and I return to town by the night-express,” said
Holmes. “We have had a charming little breath of your beautiful
Dartmoor air.”

The Inspector opened his eyes, and the Colonel’s lip curled in a
sneer.

“So you despair of arresting the murderer of poor Straker,” said
he.

Holmes shrugged his shoulders. “There are certainly grave
difficulties in the way,” said he. “I have every hope, however,
that your horse will start upon Tuesday, and I beg that you will
have your jockey in readiness. Might I ask for a photograph of
Mr. John Straker?”

The Inspector took one from an envelope and handed it to him.

“My dear Gregory, you anticipate all my wants. If I might ask you
to wait here for an instant, I have a question which I should
like to put to the maid.”

“I must say that I am rather disappointed in our London
consultant,” said Colonel Ross, bluntly, as my friend left the
room. “I do not see that we are any further than when he came.”

“At least you have his assurance that your horse will run,” said
I.

“Yes, I have his assurance,” said the Colonel, with a shrug of
his shoulders. “I should prefer to have the horse.”

I was about to make some reply in defence of my friend when he
entered the room again.

“Now, gentlemen,” said he, “I am quite ready for Tavistock.”

As we stepped into the carriage one of the stable-lads held the
door open for us. A sudden idea seemed to occur to Holmes, for he
leaned forward and touched the lad upon the sleeve.

“You have a few sheep in the paddock,” he said. “Who attends to
them?”

“I do, sir.”

“Have you noticed anything amiss with them of late?”

“Well, sir, not of much account; but three of them have gone
lame, sir.”

I could see that Holmes was extremely pleased, for he chuckled
and rubbed his hands together.

“A long shot, Watson; a very long shot,” said he, pinching my
arm. “Gregory, let me recommend to your attention this singular
epidemic among the sheep. Drive on, coachman!”

Colonel Ross still wore an expression which showed the poor
opinion which he had formed of my companion’s ability, but I saw
by the Inspector’s face that his attention had been keenly
aroused.

“You consider that to be important?” he asked.

“Exceedingly so.”

“Is there any point to which you would wish to draw my
attention?”

“To the curious incident of the dog in the night-time.”

“The dog did nothing in the night-time.”

“That was the curious incident,” remarked Sherlock Holmes.

Four days later Holmes and I were again in the train, bound for
Winchester to see the race for the Wessex Cup. Colonel Ross met
us by appointment outside the station, and we drove in his drag
to the course beyond the town. His face was grave, and his manner
was cold in the extreme.

“I have seen nothing of my horse,” said he.

“I suppose that you would know him when you saw him?” asked
Holmes.

The Colonel was very angry. “I have been on the turf for twenty
years, and never was asked such a question as that before,” said
he. “A child would know Silver Blaze, with his white forehead and
his mottled off-foreleg.”

“How is the betting?”

“Well, that is the curious part of it. You could have got fifteen
to one yesterday, but the price has become shorter and shorter,
until you can hardly get three to one now.”

“Hum!” said Holmes. “Somebody knows something, that is clear.”

As the drag drew up in the enclosure near the grand stand I
glanced at the card to see the entries. It ran:—
Wessex Plate. 50 sovs each h ft with 1000 sovs added for four and
five year olds. Second, £300. Third, £200. New course (one mile
and five furlongs).

1. Mr. Heath Newton’s The Negro (red cap, cinnamon jacket).

2. Colonel Wardlaw’s Pugilist (pink cap, blue and black jacket).

      3. Lord Backwater’s Desborough (yellow cap and sleeves).

4. Colonel Ross’s Silver Blaze (black cap, red jacket).

5. Duke of Balmoral’s Iris (yellow and black stripes).

6. Lord Singleford’s Rasper (purple cap, black sleeves).

“We scratched our other one, and put all hopes on your word,”
said the Colonel. “Why, what is that? Silver Blaze favourite?”

“Five to four against Silver Blaze!” roared the ring. “Five to
four against Silver Blaze! Five to fifteen against Desborough!

Five to four on the field!”

“There are the numbers up,” I cried. “They are all six there.”

“All six there? Then my horse is running,” cried the Colonel in
great agitation. “But I don’t see him. My colours have not
passed.”

“Only five have passed. This must be he.”

As I spoke a powerful bay horse swept out from the weighing
enclosure and cantered past us, bearing on its back the
well known black and red of the Colonel.

“That’s not my horse,” cried the owner. “That beast has not a
white hair upon its body. What is this that you have done, Mr.
Holmes?”

“Well, well, let us see how he gets on,” said my friend,
imperturbably. For a few minutes he gazed through my field-glass.

“Capital! An excellent start!” he cried suddenly. “There they
are, coming round the curve!”

From our drag we had a superb view as they came up the straight.

The six horses were so close together that a carpet could have
covered them, but half way up the yellow of the Mapleton stable
showed to the front. Before they reached us, however,

Desborough’s bolt was shot, and the Colonel’s horse, coming away
with a rush, passed the post a good six lengths before its rival,
the Duke of Balmoral’s Iris making a bad third.

“It’s my race, anyhow,” gasped the Colonel, passing his hand over
his eyes. “I confess that I can make neither head nor tail of it.

Don’t you think that you have kept up your mystery long enough,

Mr. Holmes?”

“Certainly, Colonel, you shall know everything. Let us all go
round and have a look at the horse together. Here he is,” he
continued, as we made our way into the weighing enclosure, where
only owners and their friends find admittance.
“You have only to
wash his face and his leg in spirits of wine, and you will find
that he is the same old Silver Blaze as ever.”

“You take my breath away!”

“I found him in the hands of a faker, and took the liberty of
running him just as he was sent over.”

“My dear sir, you have done wonders. The horse looks very fit and
well. It never went better in its life. I owe you a thousand
apologies for having doubted your ability. You have done me a
great service by recovering my horse. You would do me a greater
still if you could lay your hands on the murderer of John
Straker.”

“I have done so,” said Holmes quietly.

The Colonel and I stared at him in amazement. “You have got him!

Where is he, then?”

“He is here.”

“Here! Where?”

“In my company at the present moment.”

The Colonel flushed angrily. “I quite recognise that I am under
obligations to you, Mr. Holmes,” said he, “but I must regard what
you have just said as either a very bad joke or an insult.”

Sherlock Holmes laughed. “I assure you that I have not associated
you with the crime, Colonel,” said he. “The real murderer is
standing immediately behind you.” He stepped past and laid his
hand upon the glossy neck of the thoroughbred.

 “The horse!” cried both the Colonel and myself.

 “Yes, the horse. And it may lessen his guilt if I say that it was
done in self-defence, and that John Straker was a man who was
entirely unworthy of your confidence. But there goes the bell,
and as I stand to win a little on this next race, I shall defer a
lengthy explanation until a more fitting time.”

We had the corner of a Pullman car to ourselves that evening as
we whirled back to London, and I fancy that the journey was a
short one to Colonel Ross as well as to myself, as we listened to
our companion’s narrative of the events which had occurred at the
Dartmoor training-stables upon the Monday night, and the means by
which he had unravelled them.

“I confess,” said he, “that any theories which I had formed from
the newspaper reports were entirely erroneous. And yet there were
indications there, had they not been overlaid by other details
which concealed their true import. I went to Devonshire with the
conviction that Fitzroy Simpson was the true culprit, although,
of course, I saw that the evidence against him was by no means
complete. It was while I was in the carriage, just as we reached
the trainer’s house, that the immense significance of the curried
mutton occurred to me. You may remember that I was distrait, and
remained sitting after you had all alighted. I was marvelling in
my own mind how I could possibly have overlooked so obvious a
clue.”

 

“I confess,” said the Colonel, “that even now I cannot see how it
helps us.”

 

“It was the first link in my chain of reasoning. Powdered opium
is by no means tasteless. The flavour is not disagreeable, but it

is perceptible. Were it mixed with any ordinary dish the eater
would undoubtedly detect it, and would probably eat no more. A
curry was exactly the medium which would disguise this taste. By
no possible supposition could this stranger, Fitzroy Simpson,
have caused curry to be served in the trainer’s family that
night, and it is surely too monstrous a coincidence to suppose
that he happened to come along with powdered opium upon the very
night when a dish happened to be served which would disguise the
flavour. That is unthinkable. Therefore Simpson becomes
eliminated from the case, and our attention centres upon Straker
and his wife, the only two people who could have chosen curried
mutton for supper that night. The opium was added after the dish
was set aside for the stable-boy, for the others had the same for
supper with no ill effects. Which of them, then, had access to
that dish without the maid seeing them?

 

“Before deciding that question I had grasped the significance of

the silence of the dog, for one true inference invariably

suggests others. The Simpson incident had shown me that a dog was

kept in the stables, and yet, though some one had been in and had

fetched out a horse, he had not barked enough to arouse the two

lads in the loft. Obviously the midnight visitor was some one

whom the dog knew well.

 

“I was already convinced, or almost convinced, that John Straker

went down to the stables in the dead of the night and took out

Silver Blaze. For what purpose? For a dishonest one, obviously,

or why should he drug his own stable-boy? And yet I was at a loss

to know why. There have been cases before now where trainers have

made sure of great sums of money by laying against their own

horses, through agents, and then preventing them from winning by

fraud. Sometimes it is a pulling jockey. Sometimes it is some

surer and subtler means. What was it here? I hoped that the

contents of his pockets might help me to form a conclusion.

 

“And they did so. You cannot have forgotten the singular knife

which was found in the dead man’s hand, a knife which certainly

no sane man would choose for a weapon. It was, as Dr. Watson told

us, a form of knife which is used for the most delicate

operations known in surgery. And it was to be used for a delicate

operation that night. You must know, with your wide experience of

turf matters, Colonel Ross, that it is possible to make a slight

nick upon the tendons of a horse’s ham, and to do it

subcutaneously, so as to leave absolutely no trace. A horse so

treated would develop a slight lameness, which would be put down

to a strain in exercise or a touch of rheumatism, but never to

foul play.”

 

“Villain! Scoundrel!” cried the Colonel.

 

“We have here the explanation of why John Straker wished to take

the horse out on to the moor. So spirited a creature would have

certainly roused the soundest of sleepers when it felt the prick

of the knife. It was absolutely necessary to do it in the open

air.”

 

“I have been blind!” cried the Colonel. “Of course that was why

he needed the candle, and struck the match.”

 

“Undoubtedly. But in examining his belongings I was fortunate

enough to discover not only the method of the crime, but even its

motives. As a man of the world, Colonel, you know that men do not

carry other people’s bills about in their pockets. We have most

of us quite enough to do to settle our own. I at once concluded

that Straker was leading a double life, and keeping a second

establishment. The nature of the bill showed that there was a

lady in the case, and one who had expensive tastes. Liberal as

you are with your servants, one can hardly expect that they can

buy twenty-guinea walking dresses for their ladies. I questioned

Mrs. Straker as to the dress without her knowing it, and having

satisfied myself that it had never reached her, I made a note of

the milliner’s address, and felt that by calling there with

Straker’s photograph I could easily dispose of the mythical

Derbyshire.

 

“From that time on all was plain. Straker had led out the horse

to a hollow where his light would be invisible. Simpson in his

flight had dropped his cravat, and Straker had picked it up—with

some idea, perhaps, that he might use it in securing the horse’s

leg. Once in the hollow, he had got behind the horse and had

struck a light; but the creature frightened at the sudden glare,

and with the strange instinct of animals feeling that some

mischief was intended, had lashed out, and the steel shoe had

struck Straker full on the forehead. He had already, in spite of

the rain, taken off his overcoat in order to do his delicate

task, and so, as he fell, his knife gashed his thigh. Do I make

it clear?”

 

“Wonderful!” cried the Colonel. “Wonderful! You might have been

there!”

 

“My final shot was, I confess a very long one. It struck me that

so astute a man as Straker would not undertake this delicate

tendon-nicking without a little practice. What could he practice

on? My eyes fell upon the sheep, and I asked a question which,

rather to my surprise, showed that my surmise was correct.

 

 “When I returned to London I called upon the milliner, who had

recognised Straker as an excellent customer of the name of

Derbyshire, who had a very dashing wife, with a strong partiality

for expensive dresses. I have no doubt that this woman had

plunged him over head and ears in debt, and so led him into this

miserable plot.”

 

 “You have explained all but one thing,” cried the Colonel. “Where

was the horse?”

 

“Ah, it bolted, and was cared for by one of your neighbours. We

must have an amnesty in that direction, I think. This is Clapham

Junction, if I am not mistaken, and we shall be in Victoria in

less than ten minutes. If you care to smoke a cigar in our rooms,

Colonel, I shall be happy to give you any other details which

might interest you.”