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=====The Adventure of the Missing Three-Quarter=====
===Sir Arthur Conan Doyle===

We were fairly accustomed to receive weird telegrams at Baker
Street, but I have a particular recollection of one which reached
us on a gloomy February morning, some seven or eight years ago,
and gave Mr. Sherlock Holmes a puzzled quarter of an hour. It was
addressed to him, and ran thus:

~~~"Please await me. Terrible misfortune. Right wing\\
~~~three-quarter missing, indispensable to-morrow.---OVERTON."

“Strand postmark, and dispatched ten thirty-six,” said Holmes,
reading it over and over. “Mr. Overton was evidently considerably
excited when he sent it, and somewhat incoherent in consequence.
Well, well, he will be here, I daresay, by the time I have looked
through //The Times//, and then we shall know all about it. Even
the most insignificant problem would be welcome in these stagnant
days.”

Things had indeed been very slow with us, and I had learned to
dread such periods of inaction, for I knew by experience that my
companion’s brain was so abnormally active that it was dangerous
to leave it without material upon which to work. For years I had
gradually weaned him from that drug mania which had threatened
once to check his remarkable career. Now I knew that under
ordinary conditions he no longer craved for this artificial
stimulus, but I was well aware that the fiend was not dead but
sleeping, and I have known that the sleep was a light one and the
waking near when in periods of idleness I have seen the drawn
look upon Holmes’s ascetic face, and the brooding of his deep-set
and inscrutable eyes. Therefore I blessed this Mr. Overton
whoever he might be, since he had come with his enigmatic message
to break that dangerous calm which brought more peril to my
friend than all the storms of his tempestuous life.

As we had expected, the telegram was soon followed by its sender,
and the card of Mr. Cyril Overton, Trinity College, Cambridge,
announced the arrival of an enormous young man, sixteen stone of
solid bone and muscle, who spanned the doorway with his broad
shoulders, and looked from one of us to the other with a comely
face which was haggard with anxiety.

“Mr. Sherlock Holmes?”

My companion bowed.

“I’ve been down to Scotland Yard, Mr. Holmes. I saw Inspector
Stanley Hopkins. He advised me to come to you. He said the case,
so far as he could see, was more in your line than in that of the
regular police.”

“Pray sit down and tell me what is the matter.”

“It’s awful, Mr. Holmes---simply awful I wonder my hair isn’t grey.
Godfrey Staunton---you’ve heard of him, of course? He’s simply the
hinge that the whole team turns on. I’d rather spare two from the
pack, and have Godfrey for my three-quarter line. Whether it’s
passing, or tackling, or dribbling, there’s no one to touch him,
and then, he’s got the head, and can hold us all together. What
am I to do? That’s what I ask you, Mr. Holmes. There’s Moorhouse,
first reserve, but he is trained as a half, and he always edges
right in on to the scrum instead of keeping out on the touchline.
He’s a fine place-kick, it’s true, but then he has no judgment,
and he can’t sprint for nuts. Why, Morton or Johnson, the Oxford
fliers, could romp round him. Stevenson is fast enough, but he
couldn’t drop from the twenty-five line, and a three-quarter who
can’t either punt or drop isn’t worth a place for pace alone. No,
Mr. Holmes, we are done unless you can help me to find Godfrey
Staunton.”

My friend had listened with amused surprise to this long speech,
which was poured forth with extraordinary vigour and earnestness,
every point being driven home by the slapping of a brawny hand
upon the speaker’s knee. When our visitor was silent Holmes
stretched out his hand and took down letter “S” of his
commonplace book. For once he dug in vain into that mine of
varied information.

“There is Arthur H. Staunton, the rising young forger,” said he,
“and there was Henry Staunton, whom I helped to hang, but Godfrey
Staunton is a new name to me.”

It was our visitor’s turn to look surprised.

“Why, Mr. Holmes, I thought you knew things,” said he. “I
suppose, then, if you have never heard of Godfrey Staunton, you
don’t know Cyril Overton either?”

Holmes shook his head good humouredly.

“Great Scott!” cried the athlete. “Why, I was first reserve for
England against Wales, and I’ve skippered the ’Varsity all this
year. But that’s nothing! I didn’t think there was a soul in
England who didn’t know Godfrey Staunton, the crack
three-quarter, Cambridge, Blackheath, and five Internationals.
Good Lord! Mr. Holmes, where //have// you lived?”

Holmes laughed at the young giant’s naïve astonishment.

“You live in a different world to me, Mr. Overton---a sweeter and
healthier one. My ramifications stretch out into many sections of
society, but never, I am happy to say, into amateur sport, which
is the best and soundest thing in England. However, your
unexpected visit this morning shows me that even in that world of
fresh air and fair play, there may be work for me to do. So now,
my good sir, I beg you to sit down and to tell me, slowly and
quietly, exactly what it is that has occurred, and how you desire
that I should help you.”

Young Overton’s face assumed the bothered look of the man who is
more accustomed to using his muscles than his wits, but by
degrees, with many repetitions and obscurities which I may omit
from his narrative, he laid his strange story before us.

“It’s this way, Mr. Holmes. As I have said, I am the skipper of
the Rugger team of Cambridge ’Varsity, and Godfrey Staunton is my
best man. To-morrow we play Oxford. Yesterday we all came up, and
we settled at Bentley’s private hotel. At ten o’clock I went
round and saw that all the fellows had gone to roost, for I
believe in strict training and plenty of sleep to keep a team
fit. I had a word or two with Godfrey before he turned in. He
seemed to me to be pale and bothered. I asked him what was the
matter. He said he was all right---just a touch of headache. I bade
him good-night and left him. Half an hour later, the porter tells
me that a rough-looking man with a beard called with a note for
Godfrey. He had not gone to bed, and the note was taken to his
room. Godfrey read it, and fell back in a chair as if he had been
pole-axed. The porter was so scared that he was going to fetch
me, but Godfrey stopped him, had a drink of water, and pulled
himself together. Then he went downstairs, said a few words to
the man who was waiting in the hall, and the two of them went off
together. The last that the porter saw of them, they were almost
running down the street in the direction of the Strand. This
morning Godfrey’s room was empty, his bed had never been slept
in, and his things were all just as I had seen them the night
before. He had gone off at a moment’s notice with this stranger,
and no word has come from him since. I don’t believe he will ever
come back. He was a sportsman, was Godfrey, down to his marrow,
and he wouldn’t have stopped his training and let in his skipper
if it were not for some cause that was too strong for him. No: I
feel as if he were gone for good, and we should never see him
again.”

Sherlock Holmes listened with the deepest attention to this
singular narrative.

“What did you do?” he asked.

“I wired to Cambridge to learn if anything had been heard of him
there. I have had an answer. No one has seen him.”

“Could he have got back to Cambridge?”

“Yes, there is a late train---quarter-past eleven.”

“But, so far as you can ascertain, he did not take it?”

“No, he has not been seen.”

“What did you do next?”

“I wired to Lord Mount-James.”

“Why to Lord Mount-James?”

“Godfrey is an orphan, and Lord Mount-James is his nearest
relative---his uncle, I believe.”

“Indeed. This throws new light upon the matter. Lord Mount-James
is one of the richest men in England.”

“So I’ve heard Godfrey say.”

“And your friend was closely related?”

“Yes, he was his heir, and the old boy is nearly eighty---cram full
of gout, too. They say he could chalk his billiard-cue with his
knuckles. He never allowed Godfrey a shilling in his life, for he
is an absolute miser, but it will all come to him right enough.”

“Have you heard from Lord Mount-James?”

“No.”

“What motive could your friend have in going to Lord
Mount-James?”

“Well, something was worrying him the night before, and if it was
to do with money it is possible that he would make for his
nearest relative, who had so much of it, though from all I have
heard he would not have much chance of getting it. Godfrey was
not fond of the old man. He would not go if he could help it.”

“Well, we can soon determine that. If your friend was going to
his relative, Lord Mount-James, you have then to explain the
visit of this rough-looking fellow at so late an hour, and the
agitation that was caused by his coming.”

Cyril Overton pressed his hands to his head. “I can make nothing
of it,” said he.

“Well, well, I have a clear day, and I shall be happy to look
into the matter,” said Holmes. “I should strongly recommend you
to make your preparations for your match without reference to
this young gentleman. It must, as you say, have been an
overpowering necessity which tore him away in such a fashion, and
the same necessity is likely to hold him away. Let us step round
together to the hotel, and see if the porter can throw any fresh
light upon the matter.”

Sherlock Holmes was a past-master in the art of putting a humble
witness at his ease, and very soon, in the privacy of Godfrey
Staunton’s abandoned room, he had extracted all that the porter
had to tell. The visitor of the night before was not a gentleman,
neither was he a workingman. He was simply what the porter
described as a “medium-looking chap,” a man of fifty, beard
grizzled, pale face, quietly dressed. He seemed himself to be
agitated. The porter had observed his hand trembling when he had
held out the note. Godfrey Staunton had crammed the note into his
pocket. Staunton had not shaken hands with the man in the hall.
They had exchanged a few sentences, of which the porter had only
distinguished the one word “time.” Then they had hurried off in
the manner described. It was just half-past ten by the hall
clock.

“Let me see,” said Holmes, seating himself on Staunton’s bed.
“You are the day porter, are you not?”

“Yes, sir, I go off duty at eleven.”

“The night porter saw nothing, I suppose?”

“No, sir, one theatre party came in late. No one else.”

“Were you on duty all day yesterday?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you take any messages to Mr. Staunton?”

“Yes, sir, one telegram.”

“Ah! that’s interesting. What o’clock was this?”

“About six.”

“Where was Mr. Staunton when he received it?”

“Here in his room.”

“Were you present when he opened it?”

“Yes, sir, I waited to see if there was an answer.”

“Well, was there?”

“Yes, sir, he wrote an answer.”

“Did you take it?”

“No, he took it himself.”

“But he wrote it in your presence.”

“Yes, sir. I was standing by the door, and he with his back
turned at that table. When he had written it, he said: ‘All
right, porter, I will take this myself.’”

“What did he write it with?”

“A pen, sir.”

“Was the telegraphic form one of these on the table?”

“Yes, sir, it was the top one.”

Holmes rose. Taking the forms, he carried them over to the window
and carefully examined that which was uppermost.

“It is a pity he did not write in pencil,” said he, throwing them
down again with a shrug of disappointment. “As you have no doubt
frequently observed, Watson, the impression usually goes
through---a fact which has dissolved many a happy marriage.
However, I can find no trace here. I rejoice, however, to
perceive that he wrote with a broad-pointed quill pen, and I can
hardly doubt that we will find some impression upon this
blotting-pad. Ah, yes, surely this is the very thing!”

He tore off a strip of the blotting-paper and turned towards us
the following hieroglyphic:---

{{:canon-miss-1.png}}

Cyril Overton was much excited. “Hold it to the glass!” he cried.

“That is unnecessary,” said Holmes. “The paper is thin, and the
reverse will give the message. Here it is.” He turned it over,
and we read:

{{:canon-miss-2.png}}

“So that is the tail end of the telegram which Godfrey Staunton
dispatched within a few hours of his disappearance. There are at
least six words of the message which have escaped us; but what
remains---‘Stand by us for God’s sake!’---proves that this young man
saw a formidable danger which approached him, and from which
someone else could protect him. ‘//Us//,’ mark you! Another person
was involved. Who should it be but the pale-faced, bearded man,
who seemed himself in so nervous a state? What, then, is the
connection between Godfrey Staunton and the bearded man? And what
is the third source from which each of them sought for help
against pressing danger? Our inquiry has already narrowed down to
that.”

“We have only to find to whom that telegram is addressed,” I
suggested.

“Exactly, my dear Watson. Your reflection, though profound, had
already crossed my mind. But I daresay it may have come to your
notice that, counterfoil of another man’s message, there may be
some disinclination on the part of the officials to oblige you.
There is so much red tape in these matters. However, I have no
doubt that with a little delicacy and finesse the end may be
attained. Meanwhile, I should like in your presence, Mr. Overton,
to go through these papers which have been left upon the table.”

There were a number of letters, bills, and notebooks, which
Holmes turned over and examined with quick, nervous fingers and
darting, penetrating eyes. “Nothing here,” he said, at last. “By
the way, I suppose your friend was a healthy young fellow---nothing
amiss with him?”

“Sound as a bell.”

“Have you ever known him ill?”

“Not a day. He has been laid up with a hack, and once he slipped
his knee-cap, but that was nothing.”

“Perhaps he was not so strong as you suppose. I should think he
may have had some secret trouble. With your assent, I will put
one or two of these papers in my pocket, in case they should bear
upon our future inquiry.”

“One moment---one moment!” cried a querulous voice, and we looked
up to find a queer little old man, jerking and twitching in the
doorway. He was dressed in rusty black, with a very broad-brimmed
top-hat and a loose white necktie---the whole effect being that of
a very rustic parson or of an undertaker’s mute. Yet, in spite of
his shabby and even absurd appearance, his voice had a sharp
crackle, and his manner a quick intensity which commanded
attention.

“Who are you, sir, and by what right do you touch this
gentleman’s papers?” he asked.

“I am a private detective, and I am endeavouring to explain his
disappearance.”

“Oh, you are, are you? And who instructed you, eh?”

“This gentleman, Mr. Staunton’s friend, was referred to me by
Scotland Yard.”

“Who are you, sir?”

“I am Cyril Overton.”

“Then it is you who sent me a telegram. My name is Lord
Mount-James. I came round as quickly as the Bayswater bus would
bring me. So you have instructed a detective?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And are you prepared to meet the cost?”

“I have no doubt, sir, that my friend Godfrey, when we find him,
will be prepared to do that.”

“But if he is never found, eh? Answer me that!”

“In that case, no doubt his family------”

“Nothing of the sort, sir!” screamed the little man. “Don’t look
to me for a penny---not a penny! You understand that, Mr.
Detective! I am all the family that this young man has got, and I
tell you that I am not responsible. If he has any expectations it
is due to the fact that I have never wasted money, and I do not
propose to begin to do so now. As to those papers with which you
are making so free, I may tell you that in case there should be
anything of any value among them, you will be held strictly to
account for what you do with them.”

“Very good, sir,” said Sherlock Holmes. “May I ask, in the
meanwhile, whether you have yourself any theory to account for
this young man’s disappearance?”

“No, sir, I have not. He is big enough and old enough to look
after himself, and if he is so foolish as to lose himself, I
entirely refuse to accept the responsibility of hunting for him.”

“I quite understand your position,” said Holmes, with a
mischievous twinkle in his eyes. “Perhaps you don’t quite
understand mine. Godfrey Staunton appears to have been a poor
man. If he has been kidnapped, it could not have been for
anything which he himself possesses. The fame of your wealth has
gone abroad, Lord Mount-James, and it is entirely possible that a
gang of thieves have secured your nephew in order to gain from
him some information as to your house, your habits, and your
treasure.”

The face of our unpleasant little visitor turned as white as his
neckcloth.

“Heavens, sir, what an idea! I never thought of such villainy!
What inhuman rogues there are in the world! But Godfrey is a fine
lad---a staunch lad. Nothing would induce him to give his old uncle
away. I’ll have the plate moved over to the bank this evening. In
the meantime spare no pains, Mr. Detective! I beg you to leave no
stone unturned to bring him safely back. As to money, well, so
far as a fiver or even a tenner goes you can always look to me.”

Even in his chastened frame of mind, the noble miser could give
us no information which could help us, for he knew little of the
private life of his nephew. Our only clue lay in the truncated
telegram, and with a copy of this in his hand Holmes set forth to
find a second link for his chain. We had shaken off Lord
Mount-James, and Overton had gone to consult with the other
members of his team over the misfortune which had befallen them.

There was a telegraph-office at a short distance from the hotel.
We halted outside it.

“It’s worth trying, Watson,” said Holmes. “Of course, with a
warrant we could demand to see the counterfoils, but we have not
reached that stage yet. I don’t suppose they remember faces in so
busy a place. Let us venture it.”

“I am sorry to trouble you,” said he, in his blandest manner, to
the young woman behind the grating; “there is some small mistake
about a telegram I sent yesterday. I have had no answer, and I
very much fear that I must have omitted to put my name at the
end. Could you tell me if this was so?”

The young woman turned over a sheaf of counterfoils.

“What o’clock was it?” she asked.

“A little after six.”

“Whom was it to?”

Holmes put his finger to his lips and glanced at me. “The last
words in it were ‘For God’s sake,’” he whispered, confidentially;
“I am very anxious at getting no answer.”

The young woman separated one of the forms.

“This is it. There is no name,” said she, smoothing it out upon
the counter.

“Then that, of course, accounts for my getting no answer,” said
Holmes. “Dear me, how very stupid of me, to be sure!
Good-morning, miss, and many thanks for having relieved my mind.”
He chuckled and rubbed his hands when we found ourselves in the
street once more.

“Well?” I asked.

“We progress, my dear Watson, we progress. I had seven different
schemes for getting a glimpse of that telegram, but I could
hardly hope to succeed the very first time.”

“And what have you gained?”

“A starting-point for our investigation.” He hailed a cab.
“King’s Cross Station,” said he.

“We have a journey, then?”

“Yes, I think we must run down to Cambridge together. All the
indications seem to me to point in that direction.”

“Tell me,” I asked, as we rattled up Gray’s Inn Road, “have you
any suspicion yet as to the cause of the disappearance? I don’t
think that among all our cases I have known one where the motives
are more obscure. Surely you don’t really imagine that he may be
kidnapped in order to give information against his wealthy
uncle?”

“I confess, my dear Watson, that that does not appeal to me as a
very probable explanation. It struck me, however, as being the
one which was most likely to interest that exceedingly unpleasant
old person.”

“It certainly did that; but what are your alternatives?”

“I could mention several. You must admit that it is curious and
suggestive that this incident should occur on the eve of this
important match, and should involve the only man whose presence
seems essential to the success of the side. It may, of course, be
a coincidence, but it is interesting. Amateur sport is free from
betting, but a good deal of outside betting goes on among the
public, and it is possible that it might be worth someone’s while
to get at a player as the ruffians of the turf get at a
race-horse. There is one explanation. A second very obvious one
is that this young man really is the heir of a great property,
however modest his means may at present be, and it is not
impossible that a plot to hold him for ransom might be
concocted.”

“These theories take no account of the telegram.”

“Quite true, Watson. The telegram still remains the only solid
thing with which we have to deal, and we must not permit our
attention to wander away from it. It is to gain light upon the
purpose of this telegram that we are now upon our way to
Cambridge. The path of our investigation is at present obscure,
but I shall be very much surprised if before evening we have not
cleared it up, or made a considerable advance along it.”

It was already dark when we reached the old university city.
Holmes took a cab at the station and ordered the man to drive to
the house of Dr. Leslie Armstrong. A few minutes later, we had
stopped at a large mansion in the busiest thoroughfare. We were
shown in, and after a long wait were at last admitted into the
consulting-room, where we found the doctor seated behind his
table.

It argues the degree in which I had lost touch with my profession
that the name of Leslie Armstrong was unknown to me. Now I am
aware that he is not only one of the heads of the medical school
of the university, but a thinker of European reputation in more
than one branch of science. Yet even without knowing his
brilliant record one could not fail to be impressed by a mere
glance at the man, the square, massive face, the brooding eyes
under the thatched brows, and the granite moulding of the
inflexible jaw. A man of deep character, a man with an alert
mind, grim, ascetic, self-contained, formidable---so I read Dr.
Leslie Armstrong. He held my friend’s card in his hand, and he
looked up with no very pleased expression upon his dour features.

“I have heard your name, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and I am aware of
your profession---one of which I by no means approve.”

“In that, Doctor, you will find yourself in agreement with every
criminal in the country,” said my friend, quietly.

“So far as your efforts are directed towards the suppression of
crime, sir, they must have the support of every reasonable member
of the community, though I cannot doubt that the official
machinery is amply sufficient for the purpose. Where your calling
is more open to criticism is when you pry into the secrets of
private individuals, when you rake up family matters which are
better hidden, and when you incidentally waste the time of men
who are more busy than yourself. At the present moment, for
example, I should be writing a treatise instead of conversing
with you.”

“No doubt, Doctor; and yet the conversation may prove more
important than the treatise. Incidentally, I may tell you that we
are doing the reverse of what you very justly blame, and that we
are endeavouring to prevent anything like public exposure of
private matters which must necessarily follow when once the case
is fairly in the hands of the official police. You may look upon
me simply as an irregular pioneer, who goes in front of the
regular forces of the country. I have come to ask you about Mr.
Godfrey Staunton.”

“What about him?”

“You know him, do you not?”

“He is an intimate friend of mine.”

“You are aware that he has disappeared?”

“Ah, indeed!” There was no change of expression in the rugged
features of the doctor.

“He left his hotel last night---he has not been heard of.”

“No doubt he will return.”

“To-morrow is the ’Varsity football match.”

“I have no sympathy with these childish games. The young man’s
fate interests me deeply, since I know him and like him. The
football match does not come within my horizon at all.”

“I claim your sympathy, then, in my investigation of Mr.
Staunton’s fate. Do you know where he is?”

“Certainly not.”

“You have not seen him since yesterday?”

“No, I have not.”

“Was Mr. Staunton a healthy man?”

“Absolutely.”

“Did you ever know him ill?”

“Never.”

Holmes popped a sheet of paper before the doctor’s eyes. “Then
perhaps you will explain this receipted bill for thirteen
guineas, paid by Mr. Godfrey Staunton last month to Dr. Leslie
Armstrong, of Cambridge. I picked it out from among the papers
upon his desk.”

The doctor flushed with anger.

“I do not feel that there is any reason why I should render an
explanation to you, Mr. Holmes.”

Holmes replaced the bill in his notebook. “If you prefer a public
explanation, it must come sooner or later,” said he. “I have
already told you that I can hush up that which others will be
bound to publish, and you would really be wiser to take me into
your complete confidence.”

“I know nothing about it.”

“Did you hear from Mr. Staunton in London?”

“Certainly not.”

“Dear me, dear me---the postoffice again!” Holmes sighed, wearily.
“A most urgent telegram was dispatched to you from London by
Godfrey Staunton at six-fifteen yesterday evening---a telegram
which is undoubtedly associated with his disappearance---and yet
you have not had it. It is most culpable. I shall certainly go
down to the office here and register a complaint.”

Dr. Leslie Armstrong sprang up from behind his desk, and his dark
face was crimson with fury.

“I’ll trouble you to walk out of my house, sir,” said he. “You
can tell your employer, Lord Mount-James, that I do not wish to
have anything to do either with him or with his agents. No,
sir---not another word!” He rang the bell furiously. “John, show
these gentlemen out!” A pompous butler ushered us severely to the
door, and we found ourselves in the street. Holmes burst out
laughing.

“Dr. Leslie Armstrong is certainly a man of energy and
character,” said he. “I have not seen a man who, if he turns his
talents that way, was more calculated to fill the gap left by the
illustrious Moriarty. And now, my poor Watson, here we are,
stranded and friendless in this inhospitable town, which we
cannot leave without abandoning our case. This little inn just
opposite Armstrong’s house is singularly adapted to our needs. If
you would engage a front room and purchase the necessaries for
the night, I may have time to make a few inquiries.”

These few inquiries proved, however, to be a more lengthy
proceeding than Holmes had imagined, for he did not return to the
inn until nearly nine o’clock. He was pale and dejected, stained
with dust, and exhausted with hunger and fatigue. A cold supper
was ready upon the table, and when his needs were satisfied and
his pipe alight he was ready to take that half comic and wholly
philosophic view which was natural to him when his affairs were
going awry. The sound of carriage wheels caused him to rise and
glance out of the window. A brougham and pair of greys, under the
glare of a gas-lamp, stood before the doctor’s door.

“It’s been out three hours,” said Holmes; “started at half-past
six, and here it is back again. That gives a radius of ten or
twelve miles, and he does it once, or sometimes twice, a day.”

“No unusual thing for a doctor in practice.”

“But Armstrong is not really a doctor in practice. He is a
lecturer and a consultant, but he does not care for general
practice, which distracts him from his literary work. Why, then,
does he make these long journeys, which must be exceedingly
irksome to him, and who is it that he visits?”

“His coachman------”

“My dear Watson, can you doubt that it was to him that I first
applied? I do not know whether it came from his own innate
depravity or from the promptings of his master, but he was rude
enough to set a dog at me. Neither dog nor man liked the look of
my stick, however, and the matter fell through. Relations were
strained after that, and further inquiries out of the question.
All that I have learned I got from a friendly native in the yard
of our own inn. It was he who told me of the doctor’s habits and
of his daily journey. At that instant, to give point to his
words, the carriage came round to the door.”

“Could you not follow it?”

“Excellent, Watson! You are scintillating this evening. The idea
did cross my mind. There is, as you may have observed, a bicycle
shop next to our inn. Into this I rushed, engaged a bicycle, and
was able to get started before the carriage was quite out of
sight. I rapidly overtook it, and then, keeping at a discreet
distance of a hundred yards or so, I followed its lights until we
were clear of the town. We had got well out on the country road,
when a somewhat mortifying incident occurred. The carriage
stopped, the doctor alighted, walked swiftly back to where I had
also halted, and told me in an excellent sardonic fashion that he
feared the road was narrow, and that he hoped his carriage did
not impede the passage of my bicycle. Nothing could have been
more admirable than his way of putting it. I at once rode past
the carriage, and, keeping to the main road, I went on for a few
miles, and then halted in a convenient place to see if the
carriage passed. There was no sign of it, however, and so it
became evident that it had turned down one of several side roads
which I had observed. I rode back, but again saw nothing of the
carriage, and now, as you perceive, it has returned after me. Of
course, I had at the outset no particular reason to connect these
journeys with the disappearance of Godfrey Staunton, and was only
inclined to investigate them on the general grounds that
everything which concerns Dr. Armstrong is at present of interest
to us, but, now that I find he keeps so keen a look-out upon
anyone who may follow him on these excursions, the affair appears
more important, and I shall not be satisfied until I have made
the matter clear.”

“We can follow him to-morrow.”

“Can we? It is not so easy as you seem to think. You are not
familiar with Cambridgeshire scenery, are you? It does not lend
itself to concealment. All this country that I passed over
to-night is as flat and clean as the palm of your hand, and the
man we are following is no fool, as he very clearly showed
to-night. I have wired to Overton to let us know any fresh London
developments at this address, and in the meantime we can only
concentrate our attention upon Dr. Armstrong, whose name the
obliging young lady at the office allowed me to read upon the
counterfoil of Staunton’s urgent message. He knows where the
young man is---to that I’ll swear, and if he knows, then it must be
our own fault if we cannot manage to know also. At present it
must be admitted that the odd trick is in his possession, and, as
you are aware, Watson, it is not my habit to leave the game in
that condition.”

And yet the next day brought us no nearer to the solution of the
mystery. A note was handed in after breakfast, which Holmes
passed across to me with a smile.

~~~~~~~~Sir [it ran],---I can assure you that you are wasting your time in\\
~~~~~~~~dogging my movements. I have, as you discovered last night, a\\
~~~~~~~~window at the back of my brougham, and if you desire a\\
~~~~~~~~twenty-mile ride which will lead you to the spot from which you\\
~~~~~~~~started, you have only to follow me. Meanwhile, I can inform you\\
~~~~~~~~that no spying upon me can in any way help Mr. Godfrey Staunton,\\
~~~~~~~~and I am convinced that the best service you can do to that\\
~~~~~~~~gentleman is to return at once to London and to report to your\\
~~~~~~~~employer that you are unable to trace him. Your time in Cambridge\\
~~~~~~~~will certainly be wasted.---Yours faithfully,\\
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~"Leslie Armstrong."

“An outspoken, honest antagonist is the doctor,” said Holmes.
“Well, well, he excites my curiosity, and I must really know
before I leave him.”

“His carriage is at his door now,” said I. “There he is stepping
into it. I saw him glance up at our window as he did so. Suppose
I try my luck upon the bicycle?”

“No, no, my dear Watson! With all respect for your natural
acumen, I do not think that you are quite a match for the worthy
doctor. I think that possibly I can attain our end by some
independent explorations of my own. I am afraid that I must leave
you to your own devices, as the appearance of //two// inquiring
strangers upon a sleepy countryside might excite more gossip than
I care for. No doubt you will find some sights to amuse you in
this venerable city, and I hope to bring back a more favourable
report to you before evening.”

Once more, however, my friend was destined to be disappointed. He
came back at night weary and unsuccessful.

“I have had a blank day, Watson. Having got the doctor’s general
direction, I spent the day in visiting all the villages upon that
side of Cambridge, and comparing notes with publicans and other
local news agencies. I have covered some ground. Chesterton,
Histon, Waterbeach, and Oakington have each been explored, and
have each proved disappointing. The daily appearance of a
brougham and pair could hardly have been overlooked in such
Sleepy Hollows. The doctor has scored once more. Is there a
telegram for me?”

“Yes, I opened it. Here it is:

“Ask for Pompey from Jeremy Dixon, Trinity College.”

“I don’t understand it.”

“Oh, it is clear enough. It is from our friend Overton, and is in
answer to a question from me. I’ll just send round a note to Mr.
Jeremy Dixon, and then I have no doubt that our luck will turn.
By the way, is there any news of the match?”

“Yes, the local evening paper has an excellent account in its
last edition. Oxford won by a goal and two tries. The last
sentences of the description say:

“‘The defeat of the Light Blues may be entirely attributed to the
unfortunate absence of the crack International, Godfrey Staunton,
whose want was felt at every instant of the game. The lack of
combination in the three-quarter line and their weakness both in
attack and defence more than neutralized the efforts of a heavy
and hard-working pack.’”

“Then our friend Overton’s forebodings have been justified,” said
Holmes. “Personally I am in agreement with Dr. Armstrong, and
football does not come within my horizon. Early to bed to-night,
Watson, for I foresee that to-morrow may be an eventful day.”

I was horrified by my first glimpse of Holmes next morning, for
he sat by the fire holding his tiny hypodermic syringe. I
associated that instrument with the single weakness of his
nature, and I feared the worst when I saw it glittering in his
hand. He laughed at my expression of dismay and laid it upon the
table.

“No, no, my dear fellow, there is no cause for alarm. It is not
upon this occasion the instrument of evil, but it will rather
prove to be the key which will unlock our mystery. On this
syringe I base all my hopes. I have just returned from a small
scouting expedition, and everything is favourable. Eat a good
breakfast, Watson, for I propose to get upon Dr. Armstrong’s
trail to-day, and once on it I will not stop for rest or food
until I run him to his burrow.”

“In that case,” said I, “we had best carry our breakfast with us,
for he is making an early start. His carriage is at the door.”

“Never mind. Let him go. He will be clever if he can drive where
I cannot follow him. When you have finished, come downstairs with
me, and I will introduce you to a detective who is a very eminent
specialist in the work that lies before us.”

When we descended I followed Holmes into the stable yard, where
he opened the door of a loose-box and led out a squat, lop-eared,
white-and-tan dog, something between a beagle and a foxhound.

“Let me introduce you to Pompey,” said he. “Pompey is the pride
of the local draghounds---no very great flier, as his build will
show, but a staunch hound on a scent. Well, Pompey, you may not
be fast, but I expect you will be too fast for a couple of
middle-aged London gentlemen, so I will take the liberty of
fastening this leather leash to your collar. Now, boy, come
along, and show what you can do.” He led him across to the
doctor’s door. The dog sniffed round for an instant, and then
with a shrill whine of excitement started off down the street,
tugging at his leash in his efforts to go faster. In half an
hour, we were clear of the town and hastening down a country
road.

“What have you done, Holmes?” I asked.

“A threadbare and venerable device, but useful upon occasion. I
walked into the doctor’s yard this morning, and shot my syringe
full of aniseed over the hind wheel. A draghound will follow
aniseed from here to John o’Groat’s, and our friend, Armstrong,
would have to drive through the Cam before he would shake Pompey
off his trail. Oh, the cunning rascal! This is how he gave me the
slip the other night.”

The dog had suddenly turned out of the main road into a
grass-grown lane. Half a mile farther this opened into another
broad road, and the trail turned hard to the right in the
direction of the town, which we had just quitted. The road took a
sweep to the south of the town, and continued in the opposite
direction to that in which we started.

“This //détour// has been entirely for our benefit, then?” said
Holmes. “No wonder that my inquiries among those villagers led to
nothing. The doctor has certainly played the game for all it is
worth, and one would like to know the reason for such elaborate
deception. This should be the village of Trumpington to the right
of us. And, by Jove! here is the brougham coming round the
corner. Quick, Watson---quick, or we are done!”

He sprang through a gate into a field, dragging the reluctant
Pompey after him. We had hardly got under the shelter of the
hedge when the carriage rattled past. I caught a glimpse of Dr.
Armstrong within, his shoulders bowed, his head sunk on his
hands, the very image of distress. I could tell by my companion’s
graver face that he also had seen.

“I fear there is some dark ending to our quest,” said he. “It
cannot be long before we know it. Come, Pompey! Ah, it is the
cottage in the field!”

There could be no doubt that we had reached the end of our
journey. Pompey ran about and whined eagerly outside the gate,
where the marks of the brougham’s wheels were still to be seen. A
footpath led across to the lonely cottage. Holmes tied the dog to
the hedge, and we hastened onward. My friend knocked at the
little rustic door, and knocked again without response. And yet
the cottage was not deserted, for a low sound came to our ears---a
kind of drone of misery and despair which was indescribably
melancholy. Holmes paused irresolute, and then he glanced back at
the road which he had just traversed. A brougham was coming down
it, and there could be no mistaking those grey horses.

“By Jove, the doctor is coming back!” cried Holmes. “That settles
it. We are bound to see what it means before he comes.”

He opened the door, and we stepped into the hall. The droning
sound swelled louder upon our ears until it became one long, deep
wail of distress. It came from upstairs. Holmes darted up, and I
followed him. He pushed open a half-closed door, and we both
stood appalled at the sight before us.

A woman, young and beautiful, was lying dead upon the bed. Her
calm pale face, with dim, wide-opened blue eyes, looked upward
from amid a great tangle of golden hair. At the foot of the bed,
half sitting, half kneeling, his face buried in the clothes, was
a young man, whose frame was racked by his sobs. So absorbed was
he by his bitter grief, that he never looked up until Holmes’s
hand was on his shoulder.

“Are you Mr. Godfrey Staunton?”

“Yes, yes, I am---but you are too late. She is dead.”

The man was so dazed that he could not be made to understand that
we were anything but doctors who had been sent to his assistance.
Holmes was endeavouring to utter a few words of consolation and
to explain the alarm which had been caused to his friends by his
sudden disappearance when there was a step upon the stairs, and
there was the heavy, stern, questioning face of Dr. Armstrong at
the door.

“So, gentlemen,” said he, “you have attained your end and have
certainly chosen a particularly delicate moment for your
intrusion. I would not brawl in the presence of death, but I can
assure you that if I were a younger man your monstrous conduct
would not pass with impunity.”

“Excuse me, Dr. Armstrong, I think we are a little at
cross-purposes,” said my friend, with dignity. “If you could step
downstairs with us, we may each be able to give some light to the
other upon this miserable affair.”

A minute later, the grim doctor and ourselves were in the
sitting-room below.

“Well, sir?” said he.

“I wish you to understand, in the first place, that I am not
employed by Lord Mount-James, and that my sympathies in this
matter are entirely against that nobleman. When a man is lost it
is my duty to ascertain his fate, but having done so the matter
ends so far as I am concerned, and so long as there is nothing
criminal I am much more anxious to hush up private scandals than
to give them publicity. If, as I imagine, there is no breach of
the law in this matter, you can absolutely depend upon my
discretion and my cooperation in keeping the facts out of the
papers.”

Dr. Armstrong took a quick step forward and wrung Holmes by the
hand.

“You are a good fellow,” said he. “I had misjudged you. I thank
heaven that my compunction at leaving poor Staunton all alone in
this plight caused me to turn my carriage back and so to make
your acquaintance. Knowing as much as you do, the situation is
very easily explained. A year ago Godfrey Staunton lodged in
London for a time and became passionately attached to his
landlady’s daughter, whom he married. She was as good as she was
beautiful and as intelligent as she was good. No man need be
ashamed of such a wife. But Godfrey was the heir to this crabbed
old nobleman, and it was quite certain that the news of his
marriage would have been the end of his inheritance. I knew the
lad well, and I loved him for his many excellent qualities. I did
all I could to help him to keep things straight. We did our very
best to keep the thing from everyone, for, when once such a
whisper gets about, it is not long before everyone has heard it.
Thanks to this lonely cottage and his own discretion, Godfrey has
up to now succeeded. Their secret was known to no one save to me
and to one excellent servant, who has at present gone for
assistance to Trumpington. But at last there came a terrible blow
in the shape of dangerous illness to his wife. It was consumption
of the most virulent kind. The poor boy was half crazed with
grief, and yet he had to go to London to play this match, for he
could not get out of it without explanations which would expose
his secret. I tried to cheer him up by wire, and he sent me one
in reply, imploring me to do all I could. This was the telegram
which you appear in some inexplicable way to have seen. I did not
tell him how urgent the danger was, for I knew that he could do
no good here, but I sent the truth to the girl’s father, and he
very injudiciously communicated it to Godfrey. The result was
that he came straight away in a state bordering on frenzy, and
has remained in the same state, kneeling at the end of her bed,
until this morning death put an end to her sufferings. That is
all, Mr. Holmes, and I am sure that I can rely upon your
discretion and that of your friend.”

Holmes grasped the doctor’s hand.

“Come, Watson,” said he, and we passed from that house of grief
into the pale sunlight of the winter day.
Omaha Sherlockian Society

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