 The Blue Sequin by R. Austin Freeman. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Alan Winterout. The Blue Sequin by R. Austin Freeman. Thorndike stood looking up and down the platform with anxiety that increased as the time drew near for the departure of the train. This is very unfortunate, he said, reluctantly stepping into an empty smoking compartment as the guard executed a flourish with his green flag. I am afraid we have missed our friend. He closed the door, and as the train began to move thrust his head out of the window. Now I wonder if that will be he, he continued. If so, he has caught the train by the skin of his teeth and now in one of the rear compartments. The subject of Thorndike's speculation was Mr. Edward Stopford of the firm of Stopford and Myers of Portugal Street, Solicitors. And his connection with us at present arose out of a telegram that had reached our chambers on the preceding evening. It was reply paid and ran thus. Can you come here tomorrow to direct defense? In this case, all costs undertaken by us, Stopford and Myers. Thorndike's reply had been in the affirmative, and early on this present morning a further telegram evidently posted overnight had been delivered. Shall leave for Woolhurst by 8.25 from Sharing Cross. We'll call for you if possible, Edward Stopford. It had not called, however, and since he was unknown personally to us both, we could not judge whether or not he had been among the passengers on the platform. It is most unfortunate, Thorndike repeated, for it deprives us of that preliminary consideration of the case which is so invaluable. He filled his pipe thoughtfully, and having made a fruitless inspection of the platform at London Bridge, took up the paper that he had bought at the bookstore and began to turn over the leaves running his eye quickly down the columns, unmindful of the journalistic baits in paragraph four article. It is a great disadvantage, he observed, while still glancing through the paper, to come plump into an inquiry without preparation, to be confronted with the details before one has a chance of considering the case in general terms. For instance, he paused, leaving the sentence unfinished, and as I looked up inquiringly, I saw that he had turned over another page and was now reading attentively. This looks like our case, Jervis, he said presently, handing me the paper and indicating a paragraph at the top of the page. It was quite brief, and was headed Terrible Murder in Kent, the account being as follows. A shocking crime was discovered yesterday morning at the little town of Woolhurst, which lies on the branch line from Halbury Junction. The discovery was made by a porter who was inspecting the carriages of the train which had just come in. On opening the door of a first-class compartment, he was horrified to find the body of a fashionably dressed woman stretched upon the floor. Medical aid was immediately summoned, and on the arrival of the divisional surgeon, Dr. Morton, it was ascertained that the woman had not been dead more than a few minutes. The state of the corpse leaves no doubt that a murder of a most brutal kind has been perpetuated, the cause of death being a penetrating wound of the head inflicted with some pointed implement, which must have been used with terrible violence since it has perforated the skull and entered the brain. That robbery was not the motive of the crime, is made clear by the fact that an expensively fitting dressing bag was found on the rack, and that the dead woman's jewelry, including several valuable diamond rings, was untouched. It is rumored that an arrest has been made by the local police. A gruesome affair, I remarked, as I handed back the paper, but the report does not give us much information. It does not, Thorndike agreed, and yet it gives us something to consider. Here is a perforating wound of the skull inflicted with some pointed implement, that is, assuming that it is not a bullet wound. Now what kind of implement would be capable of inflicting such an injury? How would such an implement be used in the confined space of a railway carriage, and what sort of person would be in possession of such an implement? These are preliminary questions that are worth considering, and I commend them to you, together with the further problems of the possible motive, excluding robbery, and any circumstances other than murder, which might account for the injury. The choice of suitable implement is not very great, I observed. It is very limited, and most of them, such as a plasterer's pick, or a geological hammer, are associated with certain definite occupations. You have a notebook? I had, and accepting the hint, I produced it, and pursued my further reflections in silence, while my companion, with his notebook also on his knee, gazed steadily out of the window. And thus he remained, wrapped in thought, jotting down an entry now and again in his book, until the train slowed down at Halbury Junction, where we had to change on to a branch line. As we stepped out, I noticed a well-dressed man hurrying up the platform from the rear, and eagerly scanning the faces of the few passengers who had alighted. Soon he aspired us, and approaching quickly asked, as he looked from one of us to the other, Dr. Thorndike? Yes, replied my colleague, adding, And you, I presume, are Mr. Edward Stopford? The solicitor bowed. This is a dreadful affair, he said, in an agitated manner. I see you have the paper, a most shocking affair. I am immensely relieved to find you here. Nearly missed the train, and feared I should miss you. There appears to have been an arrest, Thorndike began. Yes, my brother, terrible business. Let us walk up the platform. Our train won't start for a quarter of an hour yet. We deposited our joint Gladstone and Thorndike's traveling case in an empty first-class compartment, and then, with a solicitor between us, strolled up to the unfrequented end of the platform. My brother's position, said Mr. Stopford, fills me with dismay, but let me give you the facts in order, and you shall judge for yourself. This poor creature who has been murdered so brutally was a Miss Edith Grant. She was formerly an artist model, and as such, was a good deal employed by my brother, who was a painter, Harold Stopford, you know, A.R.A., now, I know his work very well, and charming work it is. I think so too. Well, in those days, he was quite a youngster, about twenty, and he became very intimate with Miss Grant, in quite an innocent way, though not very discreet. But she was a nice respectable girl, as most English models are, and no one thought any harm. However, a good many letters passed between them, and some little presence, amongst which was a beaded chain, carrying a locket, and in this he was fool enough to put his portrait and the inscription, Edith, from Harold. Later on, Miss Grant, who had a rather good voice, went on the stage in the comic opera line, and in consequence, her habits and associates changed somewhat, and as Harold had meanwhile become engaged, he was naturally anxious to get his letters back, and especially to exchange the locket for some less compromising gift. The letters she eventually sent him, but refused absolutely to part with the locket. Now for the last month, Harold has been staying at Halbury, making sketching excursions into the surrounding country, and yesterday morning he took the train to Schinglehurst, the third station from here, and the one before Woldhurst. On the platform here, he met Miss Grant, who had come down from London and was going on to Worthing. They entered the branch train together, having a first-class compartment to themselves. It seemed she was wearing his locket at the time, and he made another appeal to her to make an exchange, which she refused as before. The discussion appears to have become rather heated and angry on both sides, for the guard and a porter at Munzden both noticed that they seemed to be quarreling, but the upshot of the affair was that the lady snapped the chain and tossed it together with the locket to my brother, and they parted quite amably at Schinglehurst where Harold got out. He was then carrying his full sketching kit, including a large Holland umbrella, the lower join of which is an ash staff, fitted with a powerful steel spike for driving into the ground. It was at about half past ten when he got out at Schinglehurst. By eleven, he had reached his pitch and got to work, and he painted steadily for three hours. Then he packed up his traps and was just starting on his way back to the station when he was met by the police and arrested. And now, observe the accumulation of circumstantial evidence against him. He was the last person seen in company with the murdered woman, for no one seems to have seen her in person. He appeared to be quarreling with her when she was last seen alive, and he had a reason for possibly wishing for her death. He was provided with an implement, a spiked staff, capable of inflicting the injury which caused her death, and when he was searched, there was found in his possession the locket and broken chain apparently removed from her person with violence. Then he was taken to the station and in his subsequent conduct imbecile to the last degree if he had been guilty, but as a lawyer I can't help seeing that the appearances are almost hopelessly against him. We won't say hopelessly, replied Thorndike, as we took our places in the carriage, though I expect the police are pretty cock-sure. When does the inquest open? Today at four. Do you happen to know the exact position of the wound? Yes, it is a little above and behind the left ear, a horrible round hole with a ragged cut or tear running from it to the side of the forehead. And how was the body lying? Right along the floor, with the feet close to the off-side door. Was the wound on the head the only one? No, there was a long cut or bruise on the right cheek, a contused wound, the police surgeon called it, which he believes to have been inflicted with a heavy and rather blunt weapon. I have not heard of any other wounds or bruises. Did anyone enter the train yesterday at Schengelhurst, Thorndike asked? No one entered the train after it had left Halbury. Thorndike considered these statements in silence and presently fell into a brown study from which he roused only as the train moved out of the Schengelhurst station. It would be about here that the murder was committed, said Mr. Stopford, at least between here and Woolhurst. Thorndike nodded rather abstractedly, being engaged at the moment in observing with great attention the objects that were visible from the windows. I noticed, he said presently, a number of chips scattered about between the rails and some of the chair wedges look new. Have there been any plate layers at work lately? Yes, answered Stopford. They are on the line now, I believe. At least, I saw a gang working near Woolhurst yesterday. And they are said to have set a rick on fire. I saw it smoking when I came down. Indeed, and this middle line of rails is, I suppose, a sort of sighting? Yes, they shunt the goods train and empty trucks onto it. There are the remains of the rick, still smoldering, you see. Thorndike gazed absently at the blackened heap until an empty cattle truck in the middle track hit it from view. This was succeeded by a line of goods wagons and these by a passenger coach, one compartment of which first class was closed up and sealed. The train now began to slow down rather suddenly, and a couple of minutes later we brought up in Woolhurst Station. It was evident that rumors of Thorndike's advent had preceded us, for the entire staff, two porters and inspector and the stationmaster were waiting expectantly on the platform and the latter came forward regardless of his dignity to help us with the luggage. Do you think I could see the carriage, Thorndike asked the solicitor? Not the inside, sir, said the stationmaster on being appealed to. The police have sealed it up. You would have to ask the inspector. Well, I can look at the outside, I suppose, said Thorndike, and to this the stationmaster readily agreed and offered to accompany us. What other first class passengers were there, Thorndike asked? None, sir. There was only one first class coach and the deceased was the only person in it. It has given us all a dreadful turn this affair has, he continued, as we set off up the line. I was on the platform when the train came in. We were watching a rick that was burning up the line and a rare blaze it made, too. And I was just saying that we should have to move the cattle truck that was on the mid-track. Because you see, sir, the smoke and sparks were blowing across and I thought it would frighten the poor beast. And Mr. Felton, he don't like his beast handled roughly. He says it spoils the meat. No doubt he is right, said Thorndike. But now tell me, do you think it is possible for any person to board or leave the train on the offside unobserved? Could a man, for instance, enter a compartment on the offside at one station and drop off as the train was slowing down at the next without being seen? I doubt it, replied the station master. Still, I wouldn't say it is impossible. Thank you. Oh, and there's another question. You have a gang of men at work on the line, I see. Now, do those men belong to the district? No, sir. They are strangers everyone of them are, but I shouldn't say there was any real harm in them. If you are suspecting any of them being mixed up in this, I am not interrupted Thorndike rather shortly. I suspect nobody, but I wish to get all the facts of the case at the outset. Naturally, sir, replied the abashed official and we pursued our way in silence. Do you remember, by the way, said Thorndike as we approached the empty coach? Whether the offside door of the compartment was closed and locked when the body was discovered? It was closed, sir, but not locked. Why, sir, did you think? Nothing, nothing. The sealed compartment is the one, of course. Without waiting for a reply, he commenced his survey of the coach while I gently restrained our two companions from shadowing him as they were disposed to do. The offside footboard occupied his attention specially, and when he had scrutinized minutely the fatal compartment, he walked slowly from end to end with his eyes with a few inches from its surface as though he was searching for something. Near what had been the rear end, he stopped and drew from his pocket a piece of paper. Then, with a moistened fingertip, he picked up from the footboard some evidently minute object which he carefully transferred to the paper, folding the ladder, and placing it in his pocketbook. He next mounted the footboard and having peered in through the window of the sealed compartment, produced from his pocket a small insufflator or powder blower with which he blew a stream of impalpable smoke-like powder onto the edges of the middle window bestowing the closest attention on the irregular dusty patches in which it settled and even measuring one on the jam of the window with a pocket rule. At length, he stepped down and having carefully looked over and announced that he had finished for the present. As we were returning down the line, we passed a working man who seemed to be viewing the chairs and sleepers with more than casual interest. That, I suppose, is one of the plate layers Thorn Dyke suggested to the station master. Yes, the foreman of the gang was the reply. I'll just step back and have a word with him if you'll walk on slowly and my companion turned back briskly and overtook the man and remained in conversation for some minutes. I think I see the police inspector on the platform remarked Thorn Dyke as we approached the station. Yes, there he is, said our guide. Come down to see what you are after, sir, I expect. Which was doubtless the case, although the officer professed to be there by the mirror's chance. You would like to see the weapons, sir, I suppose? He remarked when he had intersuesed himself. The umbrella spiked, Thorn Dyke corrected. Yes, if I may. We are going to the mortuary now. Then you'll pass the station on the way, so if you care to look in, I will walk up with you. This proposition being agreed to, we all proceeded to the police station, including the station master, who was on the very tiptoe of curiosity. There you are, sir, said the inspector, unlocking his office and ushering us in. Don't say we haven't given every facility to the defense. There are all the effects of the accused, including the very weapon the deed was done with. Come, come, protested Thorn Dyke. We mustn't be premature. He took the stout ash staff from the officer, and having examined the formidable spike through a lens, drew from his pocket a steel caliper gauge, with which he carefully measured the diameter of the spike and the staff to which it was fixed. And now, he said, when he had made a note of the measurements in his book, we will look at the color box and the sketch. Ha-ha, a very orderly man, your brother, Mr. Stopford. Tubes in all their places, pallet knives wiped clean, pallet cleaned off and rubbed bright, brushes wiped. They ought to be washed before they stiffen. All this is very significant. He unstrapped the sketch from the blank canvas to which it was pinned, and standing on a chair in a good light, stepped back to look at it. And you tell me that is only three hours' work, he exclaimed, looking at the lawyer? It is really a marvelous achievement. My brother is a very rapid worker, replied Stopford ejectedly. Yes, but this is not only amazingly rapid, it is in his very happiest vein, full of spirit and feeling, but we mustn't stay to look at it longer. He replaced the canvas on its pins, and having glanced at the locket and some other articles that lay in a drawer, thanked the inspector for his courtesy and withdrew. That sketch in the color box appeared very suggestive to me, he remarked, as we walked up the street. To me also said Stopford gloomily, for they are under lock and key like their owner, poor old fellow. He sighed heavily, and we walked on in silence. The mortuary keeper had evidently heard of our arrival, for he was waiting at the door with the key in his hand, and on being shown the coroner's order, unlocked the door, and we entered together. But after a momentary glance at the ghostly shrouded figure lying upon the slate table, Stopford turned pale and retreated, saying that he would wait for us outside with the mortuary keeper. As soon as the door was closed and locked on the inside, Thorndike glanced curiously round the bare whitewashed building. A stream of sunlight poured in through the skylight, and fell upon the silent form that lay so still under its covering sheet, and one stray beam glanced into a corner by the door, where on the row of pegs and a deal table the dead woman's clothing was displayed. There is something unspeakably sad in these poor relics, Jervis, said Thorndike, as we stood before them. To me they are more tragic, more full of pathetic suggestion than the corpse itself. See the smart jaunty hat and the costly skirts hanging there so desolate and forlorn. The dainty lingerie on the table neatly folded by the mortuary man's wife, I hope. The little French shoes and open-work silk stockings. How pathetically eloquent they are of harmless, womanly vanity and the gay, careless life snapped short of the twinkling of an eye. But we must not give way to sentiment. There is another life threatened, and it is in our keeping. He lifted the hat from its peg and turned it over in his hand. It was, I think, what is called a picture hat. A huge flat shapeless mass of gauze and ribbon and feather spangled over freely with dark blue sequins. In one part of the brim was a ragged hole, and from this the glittering sequins dropped off in little showers when the hat was moved. This will have been worn tilted over on the left side, said Thorndike, judging by the general shape and the position of the hole. Yes, I agreed. Like that of the Duchess of Devonshire in Gainsborough's portrait. Exactly. He shook a few of the sequins into the palm of his hand and, replacing the hat on its peg, dropped the little discs into an envelope on which he wrote, from the hat, and slipped it into his pocket. Then, stepping over to the table, he drew back the sheet reverently and even tenderly from the dead woman's face and looked down at it with grave pity. His comely face, white as marble, serene and peaceful in expression with half-closed eyes and framed with a mass of brassy yellow hair, but its beauty was marred by a long, linear wound, half-cut, half-brews, running down the right cheek from the eye to the chin. A handsome girl, Thorndike commented, a dark-haired blonde, what a sin to have disfigured herself so with that horrible peroxide. He smoothed the hair back from her forehead and added, she seems to have applied the stuff last about ten days ago. There's about a quarter of an inch of dark hair at the roots. What do you make of that wound on the cheek? It looks as if she had struck some sharp angle in falling, though as the seats are padded in first-class carriages, I don't see what she could have struck. No. And now let us look at the other wound. Will you note down the description? He handed me his notebook and I wrote down as he dictated, a clean-punched, circular hole in skull, an inch behind and above margin of left ear, diameter, an inch and seven-sixteenths, starred fracture of parietal bone, membranes perforated, and brain entered deeply, ragged scalp wound extending forward to margin of left orbit, fragments of gauze and sequins and edges of wound. That will do for the present. Dr. Morton will give us further details if we want them. He pocketed his calipers and rule, drew from the bruised scalp one or two loose hairs which he placed in the envelope with the sequins, and having looked over the body for other wounds or bruises, of which there were none, replaced the sheet and prepared to depart. As we walked away from the mortuary, Thorndike was silent and deeply thoughtful, and I gathered that he was piecing together the facts that he had acquired. At length, Mr. Stopford, who had several times looked at him curiously, said, The post mortem will take place at three, and it is now only half past eleven. What would you like to do next? Thorndike, who in spite of his mental preoccupation, had been looking about him in his usual keen, attentive way, halted suddenly. Your reference to the post mortem, said he, reminds me that I forgot to put the ox gall into my case. Ox gall, I exclaimed, endeavoring vainly to connect this substance with the technique of the pathologist. What were you going to do with? But here I broke off, remembering my friend's dislike of any discussion of his methods before strangers. I suppose, he continued, there would hardly be an artist's color man in a place of this size. I should think not, said Stopford, but couldn't you got the stuff from a butcher? There's a shop just across the road. So there is, agreed Thorndike, who had already observed the shop. The gall ought, of course, to be prepared, but we can filter it ourselves, that is, if the butcher has any. We will try him at any rate. He crossed the road toward the shop, over which the name Felton appeared in guilt lettering, and addressing himself to the proprietor who stood at the door, introduced himself and explained his wants. Ox gall, said the butcher, No, sir, I haven't any just now, but I am having a beast killed this afternoon, and I can let you have some then. In fact, he added, after a pause, as the matter is of importance, I can have one killed at once, if you wish it. That is very kind of you, said Thorndike, and it would greatly oblige me. Is the beast perfectly healthy? They're in splendid condition, sir. I picked them out of the herd myself, but you shall see them high and choose the one you'd like killed. You are really very good, said Thorndike warmly. I will just run into the chemist's next door and get a suitable bottle, and then I will avail myself of your exceedingly kind offer. He hurried into the chemist's shop, from which he presently emerged, carrying a white paper parcel, and we then followed the butcher down a narrow lane by the side of his shop. It led to an enclosure containing a small pin in which we're confined three handsome steers whose glossy black coats contrasted in a very striking manner with their long grayish-white, nearly straight horns. These are certainly very fine beasts, Mr. Felton, said Thorndike, as we drew up beside the pin, and in excellent condition, too. He leaned over the pin and examined the beast critically, especially as to their eyes and horns. Then, approaching the nearest one, he raised his stick and bestowed a smart tap on the underside of the right horn, followed by a similar tap on the left one, a proceeding that the beast viewed with stolid surprise. The state of the horns, explained Thorndike, as he moved on to the next steer, enables one to judge, to some extent, of the beast's health. Lord bless you, sir! laughed Mr. Felton. They haven't got no feeling in their horns else what good of their horns be to them. Apparently he was right, for the second steer was as indifferent to a sounding rap on either horn as the first. Nevertheless, when Thorndike approached the third steer, I unconsciously drew nearer to watch, and I noticed that, as the stick struck the horn, the beast drew back an evident alarm, and that when the blow was repeated, it became manifestly uneasy. He doesn't seem to like that, said the butcher. Seems as if, hello, that's queer. Thorndike had just brought his stick up against the left horn, and immediately the beast had winced and started back, shaking his head and moaning. There was not, however, room for him to back out of reach, and Thorndike, by leaning into the pin, was able to inspect the sensitive horn, which he did with the closest attention, while the butcher looked on with obvious perturbation. You don't think there is anything wrong with this beast, I hope, said he. I can't say without a further examination, applied Thorndike. It may be the horn only that is affected. If you'll have it sawn off close to the head, and sent up to me at the hotel, I will look at it and tell you. And by way of preventing any mistakes, I will mark it and cover it up to protect it from injury in the slaughterhouse. He opened his parcel, and produced from it a wide-mouthed bottle labeled Oxgall, a sheet of gutta percha tissue, a roller bandage, and a stick of sealing wax. Handing the bottle to Mr. Felton, he encased the distal half of the horn in a covering by means of the tissue and the bandage, which he fixed together with the sealing wax. I'll sawn the horn off and bring it up to the hotel myself with the Oxgall, said Mr. Felton. You shall have them in half an hour. He was as good as his word. For in half an hour, Thorndike was seated at a small table of our private sitting room in the Black Bull Hotel. The table was covered with newspaper, and on it lay the long gray horn and Thorndike's traveling case, now open and displaying a small microscope and its accessories. The butcher was solidly seated in an armchair waiting with a half suspicious eye on Thorndike for the report. And I was endeavoring by cheerful talk to keep Mr. Stopford from sinking into utter despondency, though I too kept a furtive watch on my colleague's rather mysterious proceedings. I saw him unwind the bandage and apply the horn to his ear, bending it slightly to and fro. I watched him as he scanned the surface closely through a lens and observed him as he scraped some substance from the pointed end onto a glass slide, and having applied a drop of summary agent, began to tease out the scraping with a pair of mounted needles. Presently he placed a slide under the microscope and having observed it attentively for a minute or two, turned round sharply. Come and look at this, Jervis, said he. I wanted no second bidding being on tinter hooks of curiosity, but came over and applied my eye to the instrument. Well, what is it, he asked. A multipolar nerve corpuscle, very shriveled but unmistakable. And this, he moved the slide to a fresh spot. Two pyramidal nerve corpuscles and some portions of fibers. And what do you say the tissue is? Cortical brain substance, I should say, without a doubt. I entirely agree with you, and that being so, he added, turning to Mr. Stopford. We may say that the case for the defense is practically complete. What in heaven's name do you mean, exclaimed Stopford, starting up? I mean that we can now prove when and where and how Miss Grant met her death. Come and sit down here and I will explain. No, you needn't go away, Mr. Felton. We shall have to subpoena you. Perhaps, he continued, we had better go over the facts and see what they suggest. And first we note the position of the body, lying with the feet close to the off-side door, showing that when she fell, the deceased was sitting or more probably standing close to that door. Now there is this. He drew from his pocket a folded paper, which he opened displaying a tiny blue disc. It is one of the sequins with which her hat was trimmed, and I have in this envelope several more which I took from the hat itself. This single sequin I picked up on the rear end of the off-side footboard, and its presence there makes it nearly certain that at some time Miss Grant had put her head out of the window on that side. The next item of evidence I obtained by dusting the margins of the off-side window with a light powder, which made visible a greasy impression three and a quarter inches long on the sharp corner of the right hand jam, right hand from the inside, I mean. And now, as to the evidence furnished by the body. The wound in the skull is behind and above the left ear, is roughly circular, and measures one inch and seven sixteenths at most, and a ragged scalp wound runs from it toward the left eye. On the right cheek is a linear contused wound three and a quarter inches long. There are no other injuries. Our next facts are furnished by this. He took up the horn and tapped it with his finger, while the solicitor and Mr. Felton stared at him in speechless wonder. You notice it is a left horn and you remember that it was highly sensitive. Now if you put your ear to it while I strain it, you will hear the grating of a fracture in the bony core. Now look at the pointed end and you will see several deep scratches running lengthwise, and where those scratches end, the diameter of the horn is, as you see by the caliper gauge, one inch and seven sixteenths. Covering the scratches is a dry blood stain and at the extreme tip is a small mass of a dried substance which Dr. Jervis and I have examined with the microscope and are satisfied as brain tissue. Good God exclaimed Stopford eagerly. You mean to say, let us finish with the facts, Mr. Stopford, Thorndike interrupted. Now, if you look closely at that blood stain, you will see a short piece of hair stuck to the horn and through this lens you can make out the root bulb. It is a golden hair, you notice, but near the root it is black and our caliper gauge shows us that the black portion is fourteen sixty-fourths of an inch long. Now in this envelope are some hairs that are removed from the dead woman's head. They are also golden hairs, black at the roots and when I measure the black portion I find it to be fourteen sixty-fourths of an inch long. Then finally there is this. He turned the horn over and pointed to a small patch of dried blood. Embedded in it was a blue sequin. Mr. Stopford and the butcher both gazed at the horn in silent amazement. Then the former drew a deep breath and looked up at Thorndike. No doubt, he said, you can explain this mystery, but for my part I am utterly bewildered though you are filling me with hope. And yet the matter is quite simple, returned Thorndike, even with these few facts before us which are only a selection from the body of evidence in our possession. But I will state my theory and you shall judge. He rapidly sketched a rough plan on a sheet of paper and continued. These were the conditions when the train was approaching Woolhurst. Here was the passenger coach, here was the burning rick and here was a cattle truck. This steer was in that truck. Now, my hypothesis is that at the time his grant was standing with her head out of the offside window watching the burning rick. Her white hat, worn on the left side, hid from her view the cattle truck which she was approaching and then this is what happened. He sketched another plan to a larger scale. One of the steers, this one, had thrust its long horn out through the bars. The point of that horn struck the deceased head, driving her face violently against the corner of the window and then, in disengaging, plowed its way through the scalp and suffered a fracture of its core from the violence of the wrench. This hypothesis is inherently probable. It fits all the facts and those facts admit of no other explanation. The solicitor sat for a moment as though dazed. Then he rose impulsively and seized Thorndike's hands. I don't know what to say to you, he exclaimed huskily, except that you have saved my brother's life and for that may God reward you. The butcher rose from his chair with a slow grin. It seems to me, said he, as if that ox gall was what you might call a blind, eh, sir? And Thorndike smiled an inscrutable smile. When we returned to town on the following day, we were a party of four, which included Mr. Harold Stopford. The verdict of Death by Misadventure, promptly returned by the coroner's jury, had been shortly followed by his release from custody and he now sat with his brother and me, listening with rapt attention to Thorndike's analysis of the case. So you see, the latter concluded, I had six possible theories of the cause of death worked out before I reached Halbury and it only remained to select the one that fitted the facts. And when I had seen the cattle truck, had picked up that sequin, had heard the description of the steers and had seen the hat and the wounds, there was nothing left to do but filling in of details. And you never doubted my innocence, asked Harold Stopford. Thorndike smiled at his quantum client. Not after I had seen your color box and your sketch, said he, to say nothing of the spike. End of The Blue Sequin. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Read by Jerome Lawson. The Adventure of the Six Napoleons by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. It was no very unusual thing for Mr. Lestrade of Scotland Yard to look in upon us of an evening and his visits were welcome to Sherlock Holmes, for they enabled him to keep in touch with the police headquarters. In return for the news which Lestrade would bring, Holmes was always ready to listen with attention to the details of any case upon which the detective was engaged and was able occasionally, without any active interference, to give some hint or suggestion drawn from his own vast knowledge and experience. On this particular evening, Lestrade had spoken of the weather and the newspapers. Then he had fallen silent, puffing thoughtfully at his cigar. Holmes looked keenly at him. Anything remarkable on hand, he asked. Oh, no, Mr. Holmes, nothing very particular. Then tell me about it. Lestrade laughed. Well, Mr. Holmes, there is no use denying that there is something on my mind, and yet it is such an absurd business that I hesitated to bother you about it. On the other end, although it is trivial, it is undoubtedly queer, and I know that you have a taste after the common, but in my opinion it comes more in Dr. Watson's line than ours. This is, said I, madness anyhow, and a queer madness too. You wouldn't think that there was anyone living at this time of day who had such a hatred of Napoleon I that he would break any image of him that he could see. Holmes sank back in his chair. That's no business of mine, said he. Exactly, that's what I said. But then, when the man committed burglary in order to break images which are not his own, that brings it away from the doctor and on to the policeman. Holmes sat up again. Burglary! This is more interesting. Let me hear the details. Lestrade took out his official notebook and refreshed his memory from its pages. The first case reported was four days ago, said he. It was at the shop of Morse Hudson, who has a place for the sale of pictures and statues in the Kennington Road. The assistant had left the front shop for an instant when he heard a crash and herringing him he found the plaster-busted Napoleon, which stood with several other works involved upon the counter, lying shivered into fragments. He rushed out into the road, but although several passes by declared that they had noticed a man run out of the shop, he could neither see any one, nor could he find any means of identifying the restful. Seemed to be one of those senseless acts of hooliganism which occurred from time to time, and it was reported to the constable on the beat as such. The plaster cast was not worth more than a few shillings, and the whole affair appeared to be too childish for any particular investigation. The second case, however, was more serious, and also more singular. It occurred only last night. In Kennington Road, and within a few hundred yards of Morse Hudson's shop, there lives a well-known medical practitioner named Dr Barnicob, who has one of the largest practices upon the south side of the times. His residence and principal consulting room is at Kennington Road, but he has a branched surgery and dispensary at Lower Brixton Road, two miles away. This Dr Barnicott is an enthusiastic admirer of Napoleon, and his house is full of books, pictures and relics of the French Emperor. Some little time ago, he purchased from Morse Hudson two duplicate plaster casts of the famous head of Napoleon by the French sculptor Devine. One of these he placed in his hall in the house at Kennington Road, a piece of the surgery at Lower Brixton. Well, when Dr Barnicott came down this morning, it was astonished to find that his house had been burgled during the night, but that nothing had been taken to save the plaster head from the hall. It had been carried out, and had been dashed servidically against the Garden War, under which its splinted fragments were discovered. Holmes rubbed his hands. This is certainly very novel, said he. I thought it would please you, not call to the end yet. Dr Barnicott was due at his surgery at twelve o'clock, and you can imagine his amazement when, on arriving there, he found that the window had been opened in the night, and that the broken pieces of his second bust were strewn all over the room. It had been smashed to atoms where it stood, and neither case were there any signs which could give us a clue as to the criminal or lunatic who had done the mischief. Now, Mr Holmes, you've got the facts. Not to say grotesque, said Holmes. May I ask whether the two busts smashed in Dr Barnicott's rooms were the exact duplicates of the one which was destroyed in Morse Hudson's shop? They were taken from the same mould. Such a fact must tell against the theory that the man who breaks them is influenced by any general hatred in the Perian, considering how many hundreds of statues of the Great Emperor must exist in London. It is too much to suppose such a coincidence as that promiscuous iconoclast should chance to begin upon three specimens of the same bust. Well, I thought as you do, said Lestrade. On the other hand, this Morse Hudson is the purveyor of busts in that part of London, and these three were the only ones which have been in his shop for years. So, although, as you say, there are many hundreds of statues in London, it is very probable that these three were the only ones in that district. Therefore, a local phonetic would begin with them. What do you think, Dr Watson? There are no limits to the possibilities of monomania, I answered. There is the condition which the modern French psychologists have called the I.D. Fixé, which may be travelling in character and accompanied by complete sanity in every other way. A man who had read deeply about Napoleon, or who had possibly received some Reddit today family injury through the Great War, might conceivably form such an I.D. Fixé, and under its influence be capable of any fantastic outrage. That won't do, my dear Watson, said Holmes shaking his head, for no amount of I.D. Fixé would enable your interesting monomania to find out where the busts were situated. Well, how do you explain it? I don't attempt to do so. I would only observe that there is a certain method in the gentleman's eccentric proceedings. For example, in Dr Bonicott's hall where a sound might arouse the family, the bust was taken outside before being broken, whereas in the surgery, where there was less danger of an alarm, it was smashed what it stood. The affair seems absurdly trifling, and yet I dare call nothing trivial when I reflect that some of my most classic cases have had the least promising commencement. You will remember, Watson, how the dreadful business of the Abernetti family was first brought to my notice by the depth which the parsley had sunk into the butter upon a hot day. I can't afford, therefore, to smile at your three broken bust, Lestrade, and I should be very much obliged to you if you will let me head of any first developments of so singular a chain of events. The development for which my friend had asked came in a quicker and infinitely more tragic form than he could have imagined. I was still dressing in my bedroom next morning when there was a tap at the door, and Holmes entered, a telegram in his hand. He read it aloud. Come instantly, 131 Pitt Street, Kensington, Vestraud. What is it, then? I asked. Don't know. Maybe anything. But I suspect it is the sequel of the story of the statues. In that case, our friend the image-breaker has begun operations in another quarter of London. There's coffee on the table, Watson, and I have a cab at the door. In half an hour we had reached Pitt Street, a quiet little backwater just beside one of the briskest currents of London life. Number 131 was one of a row, all flat-chested, respectable, and most unromantic dwellings. As we drove up, we found the railings in front of the house lined by a curious crowd. Holmes whistled. By George. It's attempted murder in the least. Nothing less will hold the London message boy. There's a deed of violence indicated in that fellow's round shoulders and outstretched neck. What's this, Watson? The top steps swill down and the other ones dry? What steps enough anyhow? Well, well. That is destroyed at the front window and we shall soon know all about it. The official received us with a very grave face and showed us into a sitting-room where an exceedingly unkempt and agitated elderly man clad in a flannel dressing-gown was pacing up and down. He was introduced to us as the owner of the house, Mr. Horace Harker, of the Central Press Syndicate. It's the Napoleon boss business again, said Lestrade. You seem interested last night, Mr. Holmes. So I thought perhaps you would be glad to present now that the affair has taken a very much griver turn. What does it tend to, then? To murder. Mr. Harker, will you tell the gentleman exactly what has occurred? The man in the dressing-gown turned upon us with the most melancholy face. It's an extraordinary thing, said he, that all my life I've been collecting other people's news and now that a real piece of news has come my own way, I'm so confused and bored that I'm not sure what to do with it. Mr. Harker, in my own way, I'm so confused and bothered that I can't put two words together. If I had come in here as a journalist, I should have interviewed myself when I do columns in every evening paper. As it is, I'm giving away valuable copy by telling them my story over and over to a string of different people, and I can make no use of it myself. However, I've heard your name, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and if you'll only explain their square business, I shall be paid for my trouble in telling you my story. Holmes sat down and listened. It all seems to send around that bust of Napoleon which I had bought for this very room about four months ago. I picked it up cheap from the Harding Brothers, two rolls from the High Street Station. A great deal of my journalistic work is done at night, and I often write until the early morning, so it was today. I was sitting in my den, which is at the back of the top of the house, about three o'clock, when I was convinced that I heard some sounds downstairs. I listened, but they were not repeated, and I concluded that they came from outside. Then, suddenly, about five minutes later, I came in most horrible yell, the most dreadful sound Mr. Holmes had I ever heard. It will linger in my ears as long as I live. I sat frozen with horror for a minute or two, then I seized the poker room and upstairs. When I entered this room I found the window wide open, and I had once observed that the bust was gone from the mantelpiece. Why, any burglar should take such a thing passes my understanding, for it was only a plastic cast and had no real value whatsoever. You can see for yourself that anyone going out through the open window could first reach the front door steps by taking a long stride. This was clearly what the burglar had done, so I went round and opened the door. Stepping out into the dark I nearly fell over a dead man who was lying there. I ran back for a light, but the whole place swimming in blood. Today on his back his knee is drawn up and his mouth horribly open. I shall see him in my dreams. I had just had time to blow on my police whistle, and then I must have fainted, for I knew nothing more until I found the policeman standing over me in the hall. Well, who was the murdered man, asked Holmes. There is nothing to show who he was, said Lestrade. You shall see the body at the mortuary, but we've made nothing of it up to now. He's a tall man, sunburned, very powerful, not more than thirty. He's poorly dressed, and yet does not appear to be a labourer. A horn-handled clasp knife was lying in a pool of blood beside him. Whether it was the weapon which did the deed, or whether it belonged to the dead man, I do not know. There was no name on his clothing, and nothing in his pocket save an apple, some string, a shilling map of London, here it is. It was evidently taken by a snapshot from a small camera. It represented an alert, sharp-featured simian man, with thick eyebrows and a very peculiar projection of the lower part of the face, like the muzzle of a baboon. And what became of the bust? Asked Holmes, after a careful study of this picture. We had news of it just before you came. It has been found in the front garden of an empty house in Compton House Road. It was broken into fragments. I'm going round now to see it. Will you come? Suddenly, I must just take one look round. He examined the carpet in the window. The fellow had either very long legs or was a most active man, said he. With an area beneath, it was no mean feat to reach that window ledge and open that window. Getting back was competitively simple. Are you coming with us to see the remains of your bust, Mr. Harker? The disconsolate journalist had seated himself at a writing table. I must try and make something of it, said he. Though I have no doubt that the first editions of the Eden Papers are out already with full details, it's like my luck. But remember when the stand fell at Don Caster? Well, I was the only journalist in the stand and my journal the only one that had no count of it. But I was too shaken to write and now I'll be too late with a murder done on my own doorstep. As we left the room, we heard his pen traveling shrilly over the fool's cap. The spot where the fragments of the bust had been found was only a few hundred yards away. For the first time our eyes rested upon this presentment of the great Emperor, which seemed to raise such frantic and destructive hatred in the mind of the unknown. It lay scattered and splintered shards upon the grass. Holmes picked up several of them and examined them carefully. I was convinced from his intent face and his purposeful manner that at last he was upon a clue. Well, asked Lestrade, Holmes shruggled his shoulders. We have a long way to go yet, said he, and yet and yet. Well, we have some suggestive facts to act upon. The possession of this trifling bust was worth more in the eyes of this strange criminal than a human life. That is one point. Then there is the singular fact that he did not break it in the house or immediately outside the house as if to break it was his sole object. He was rattled and bustled by meeting his other fellow. He hardly knew what he was doing. Well, that's likely enough. But I wish to call your attention very particularly to the position of this house in the garden of which the bust was destroyed. Lestrade looked about him. It was an empty house and so he knew he would not be disturbed in the garden. Yes, but there is another empty house further up the street which he must have passed before he came to this one. Why did he not break it there since it is evident that every yard that he carried it increased the risk of someone meeting him? I'll give it up, said Lestrade. Holmes pointed to the street lamp above our heads. He could see what he was doing here and he could not there. That was his reason. Bajo, that's true! Said the detective, that I come to think of it, Dr. Barnicolt's bust was broken not far from his red lamp. Well, Mr. Holmes, what a way to do with that fact. To remember it. To dock at it. We may come on something later which will bear upon it. What steps do you propose to take now, Lestrade? The most practical way of getting at it, in my opinion, is to identify the dead man. There should be no difficulty about that. When we are found out who he is and who his associates are, we should have a good start in learning what he was doing in Pit Street last night and who it was who met him and killed him on the doorstep of Mr. Horace Harker. Don't you think so? No doubt, and yet it is not quite the same way in which I should approach the case. What would you do then? Oh, you must not let me influence you in any way. I suggest that you go on your line and I on mine. We can compare notes afterwards and we'll each supplement the other. Very good, said Lestrade. If you are going back to Pit Street you might see Mr. Horace Harker. Tell him for me that I have quite made up my mind and that it is certain that a dangerous homicidal lunatic with Napoleonic delusions was in his house last night. It will be useful for his arterial. Lestrade stared. You don't seriously believe that? Holmes smiled. Don't I? Well, perhaps I don't, but I am sure that it will interest Mr. Horace Harker and the subscribers of the Central Press Syndicate. Now, Watson, I think that we shall find that we have a long and rather complex day's work before us. I should be glad, Lestrade, if you could make it convenient to meet us at Baker Street at six o'clock this evening. Until then I should like to keep this photograph found in the dead man's pocket. It is possible that I may have to ask your company an assistance upon a small expedition, which will have to be taken tonight if my chain of reasoning should prove to be correct. Until then, good-bye and good luck. Sherlock Holmes and I walked together to the High Street where we stopped at the shop of Harding Brothers, whence the bust had been purchased. A young assistant informed us that Mr. Harding would be absent until afternoon and that he himself was a newcomer who could give us no information. Holmes' face showed his disappointment and annoyance. Well, well, we can't expect it to have it all our way, Watson. He said at last, we must come back in the afternoon if Mr. Harding will not be here until then. I am, as you have no doubt surmised, endeavoring to trace these busts to their source in order to find out if there is not something peculiar which may account for their remarkable fate. Let us make for Mr. Morse Hudson of the Kennington Road and see if he can throw any light upon the problem. A driver of an hour brought us to the picture dealer's establishment. He was a small, stout man with a red face and a peppery manner. Yes, sir. On my very countess, sir. Said he. What we pay rates and taxes for, I don't know when any ruffian can come in and break one's goods. Yes, sir. A presider who told Dr. Barney called his two statues. It's graceful, sir. A niless plot. That's what I make it. No one but an anarchist would go about breaking statues. Read Republicans. That's what I call them. Who did I get the statues from? I don't see what that has to do with it. Well, if you really want to know, I bought them from Geldering Company and Church Street, Stipney. They're a well-known house in the trade and have been these twenty years. Have any had I? Three. Two and one are three. Two of Dr. Barney Cots and one smashed in broad daylight on my own counter. Do I know that photograph? No, I don't. Yes, I do, though. Why, it's Beppo. He was a kind of Italian piecework man who made himself useful in the shop. He could carve a bit and guild and frame and do odd jobs. The fellow left me last week and I've heard nothing of him since. No, I don't know where he came from, nor where he went to. I had nothing against him while he was here. It was gone two days before the bust was smashed. Well, that's all we could reasonably expect from Morse Hudson, said Holmes, as we emerged from the shop. We have this Beppo as a common factor, both in Kennington and in Kensington, so that it is worth a ten-mile drive. Now, Watson, let us make for Gelder and Company of Stepney, the source and origin of the busts. I shall be surprised if we don't get some help down there. In rapid succession, we pass through the fringe of fashionable London, hotel London, theatrical London, literary London, commercial London, and, finally, maritime London. Till we came to a riverside city of 1,000 soles where the tenement houses swelter and reek with the outcasts of Europe. Here, in a broad thoroughfare, once the abode of wealthy city merchants, we found the sculpture works for which we searched. Outside was a considerable yard full of monumental masonry. Inside was a large room in which 50 workers were carving or molding. The manager, a big blond German, received us civilly and gave a clear answer to all Holmes' questions. The texts to his books show that hundreds of casts had been taken from a marble copy of Divine's Head of Napoleon, but that the three which had been sent to Morsehud's in a year or so before had been half of a batch of six. The other three being sent to Harding Brothers of Kensington. There was no reason why these six should be different from any of the other casts. He could suggest no possible cause why anyone should wish to destroy them. In fact, he laughed at the idea. Their wholesale price was six shillings, but the retailer would get twelve or more. The cast was taken in two molds from each side of the face, and then these two profiles of plaster of Paris were joined together to make the complete bust. The work was usually done by Italians in the room we were in. When finished, the busts were put on the table in the passage to dry and afterwards stored. That was all he could tell us. But the production of the photograph had a remarkable effect upon the manager. His face flushed with anger and his brows knotted over his blue two-tonic eyes. Ah, the vascular! He cried. Yes, indeed. I know him very well. This has always been a respectable establishment, and the only time that we ever had the police in it was over this fellow. It was more than a year ago now. He knifed another Italian in the street, and then he came to the works with the police on his heels, and he was taken here. Beppo was his name. I never knew. Serve me right for engaging a man with such a face. But he was a good workman, one of the best. What did he get? The man lived, and he got off with a year. I have no doubt where he is now, but he has not dared to show his nose here. We have a cousin of his here, and I dare say he could tell you where he is. No, no! cried Holmes, not a word to the cousin, not a word. I beg of you. The matter is very important, and the further I go with it, the more important it seems to grow. When you referred in your ledger to the sale of those casts, I observed that the date was June 3rd of last year. Could you give me the date when Beppo was arrested? I could tell you roughly by the pay list, the manager answered. Yes, he continued after turning over of pages. He has paid last on May 20th. Thank you, said Holmes. I didn't think that I need intrude upon your time and patience any more. With the last word of caution that he should say nothing as to our researches, we turned our faces westward once more. The afternoon was far advanced before we were able to snatch a hasty luncheon at a restaurant, a news bill of the entrance announced, Kensington Outrage, Murder by a Madman, and the contents of the paper showed that Mr. Horace Harker had got his account into print after all. Two columns were occupied with a highly sensational and flowery rendering of the whole incident. Holmes propped it against the crew at stand and read it while he ate. Once or twice he chuckled. This is all right, Watson, said he. Listen to this. It is satisfactory to know that there can be no difference of opinion upon this case, since Mr. Lestrade, one of the most experienced members of the official force, and Mr. Sherlock Holmes, the well-known consulting expert, the conclusion that the grotesque series of incidents, which have ended in so tragic a fashion, arise from lunacy, rather than from deliberate crime, no explanation save mental aberration can cover the facts. The press, Watson, is a most valuable institution, but only if you know how to use it, and now, if you have quite finished, we will hark back to Kensington and see what the manager of Harding Brothers has to say on the matter. The founder of that great emporium proved to be a brisk, crisp little person, very dapper and quick, with a clear head and a ready tone. Yes, sir. I've already read the account in the evening papers. Mr. Horace Harker is a customer of ours. We supplied him with the bust some months ago. We ordered three busts of that sort from Gelder and Company of Stipney. They're all sold now. To whom? Oh, I dare say by consulting our sales book we could very easily tell you. Yes, we have the entries here. One to Mr. Harker, you see, by a brown of Labanham Lodge, Labanham Vale, Chiswick, and one to Mr. Sanderford, of Lower Grove Road, Reading. No, I've never seen this face which you showed me in the photograph. You would hardly forget it, would you, sir? But I've seldom seen an uglier. Are we any Italians on the staff? Yes, sir, we have several among our work people and cleaners. I dare say they might get a peep at that sales book if they wanted to. There is no particular reason for keeping a watch upon that book. It's a very straight new business, and I hope that you will let me know if anything comes of their inquiries. Holmes had taken several notes during Mr. Harding's evidence, and I could see that he was thoroughly satisfied by the turn which affairs were taking. He made no remark, save that, unless we hurried, we should be late for our appointment with Lestrade. Sure enough, when we reached Baker Street the detective was already there, and we found him pacing up and down in a fever of impatience. His look of importance showed that he was very keen. Well, he asked, what like, Mr. Holmes? We had a very busy day, an alternately wasted one, my friend explained. We have seen both the retailers and also the wholesale manufacturers. I can trace each of the busts now from the beginning. The busts, cried Lestrade. Well, well, you have your own message, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and it's not for me to say a word against them. I have identified the dead man. You don't say so. And found a cause for the crime. Splendid. We have an inspector who makes a specialty of Saffron Hill in the Italian Quarter. Well, this dead man had some catholic emblem round his neck, and that, along with his colour, made me think he was from the south. Inspector Hill knew him the moment he caught sight of him. His name is Pietro Venucci, from Naples, and he was one of the greatest cutthroats in London. He's connected with the mafia, which, as you know, is a secret political society, enforcing its decrees by murder. Now, you see how the affair begins to clear up. The other fellow is probably an Italian also, and a member of the mafia. He has broken the rules in some fashion. Pietro set up on his track. Probably the photograph we found in his pocket is the man himself, so that he may not knife the wrong person. He dogs the fellow, sees him into a house, he waits outside for him, and in his scuffle he receives his own death-wound. How is it, Mr Sherlock Holmes? Holmes clapped his hands approvingly. Excellent, Lestrade. Excellent! he cried. But I didn't quite follow your explanation of the destruction of the busts. The busts? You can never get those busts out of your head. After all, that is nothing. Petty larceny. Six months at the most. It is the murder that we are really investigating, and I tell you that I'm gathering two other threads into my hands. And the next stage? It is a very simple one. I shall go down with heel to the Italian quarter, find the man whose photograph we've got, and arrest him on the charge of murder. Will you come with us? I think not. I fancy we can attain our end in a simpler way. I can say for certain, because it all depends... Well, it all depends upon a factor which is completely outside our control. But I have great hopes. In fact, the betting is exactly two to one that if you will come with us tonight, I shall be able to help you lay him by the heels. I shall be able to help you lay him by the heels. In the Italian quarter? No. I fancy Chiswick as an address which is more likely to find him. If you will come with me to Chiswick tonight, Lestrade, I promise to go to the Italian quarter with you tomorrow, and no harm will be done by the delay. And now, I think that if you are asleep would do us all good. For I do not propose to leave before eleven o'clock, and it is unlikely that we shall be back before morning. You'll dine with us, Lestrade, and then you are welcome to the sofa until it is time for us to start. In the meantime, Watson, I should be glad if you would ring for an express messenger, for I have a letter to send, and it is important that it should go at once. Holmes spent the evening in rummaging among the files of the old daily papers, with which one of our lumber-rooms was packed. When at last he descended, it was with triumph in his eyes, but he said nothing to either of us as to the result of his researches. For my own part, I had followed step by step the method by which he had traced the various windings of this complex case, and though I could not yet perceive the goal which we would reach, I understood clearly that Holmes expected this grotesque criminal to make an attempt upon the two remaining busts, one of which I remembered was at Chiswick. No doubt the object of our journey was to catch him in the very act, and I could not but admire the cunning with which my friend had inserted a wrong clue in the evening paper, so as to give the fellow an idea that he could continue his scheme with impunity. I was not surprised when Holmes suggested that I should take my revolver with me. He had himself picked up the loaded hunting crop, which was his favorite weapon. A four-wheeler was at the door at eleven, and in it we drove to a spot at the other side of Hammersmith Bridge. Here the cabman was directed to wait. A short walk brought us to a secluded road fringed with pleasant houses, each standing in its own grounds. In the light of a streetlamp we read Labernum Villa upon the gatepost of one of them. The occupants had evidently retired to rest, for always dark saved for a fanlight over the hall door, which shed a single blurred circle onto the garden path. The wooden fence which separated the grounds from the road threw a dense black shadow upon the inner side, and here it was that we crouched. I fear that you'll have a long wait, Holmes whispered. We may thank our stars that it is not raining. I don't think we can even venture to smoke to pass the time. However, it's a two-to-one chance that we get something to pay us for our trouble. It proved, however, that our vigil was not to be so long as Holmes had led us to fear, and it ended in a very sudden and singular fashion. In an instant, without the least sound to warn us of his coming, the light swung open, and a lithe, dark figure, as swift and active as an ape, rushed up the garden path. We saw it whisk past the light thrown from over the door, and disappear against the black shadow of the house. There was a long pause during which we held our breath, and then a very gentle creaking sound came to our ears. The window was being opened. The noise ceased, and again there was a long silence. We went into the house. We saw the sudden flash of a dark lantern inside the room. What he saw was evidently not there. For again we saw the flash through another blind, and then through another. Let's get to the open window. We'll nab him as he climbs out," Lestrade whispered. But before we could move, the man had emerged again. As he came out into the glimmering patch of light, we saw that he carried something white under his arm. He was stealthily all round him. The silence of the deserted street reassured him. Turning his back upon us, he laid down his burden, and the next instant there was the sound of a sharp tap, followed by a clatter and rattle. The man was so intent upon what he was doing, that he never heard our steps as we stole across the grass plot. With the bound of a tiger, Holmes was on his back, and an instant later Lestrade and I had him by either wrist, and the handcuffs were fastened. When we turned him over, I saw a hideous, sallow face with writhing, furious features glaring up at us, and I knew that it was indeed the man of the photograph whom we had secured. But it was not our prisoner to whom Holmes was giving his attention. Squatted on the doorstep, he was engaged in most carefully examining that which the man had brought from the house. It was a bust of Napoleon, like the one which we had seen that morning, and it had been broken into similar fragments. Carefully, Holmes held each separate shard to the light, but in no way did it differ from any other shattered piece of plaster. He had just completed his examination when the hall lights flew up, the door opened, and the owner of the house, a jovial, rotund figure ensured in trousers, presented himself. Mr. Josiah Brown, I suppose, said Holmes. Yes, sir. When you no doubt of Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I had the note which you sent by the express messenger, and they did exactly what you told me. We knocked every door on the outside in a way to developments. Well, I'm very glad to see that you have got the rascal. I hope, gentlemen, that you will come in and have some refreshment. However, Lestrade was anxious to get his man into safe quarters. So within a few minutes our cab had been summoned, and we were all four upon our way to London. Not a word would our captive say, but he glared at us from the shadow of his matted hair, and once, when my hand seemed within his reach, he snapped at it like a hungry wolf. We stayed long enough at the police station to learn that assertive his clothing revealed nothing save a few shillings and a long sheath-knife, the handle of which bore copious traces of recent blood. That's all right, said Lestrade, as we parted. He'll knows all these gentry, and he'll give a name to him. You'll find that my theory of the mafia will work out all right. But I'm sure I'm exceedingly obliged to you, Mr. Holmes, for the workman-like way in which you laid hands upon him. I don't quite understand it all yet. I fear it is rather too late an hour for explanations, said Holmes. Besides, there are one or two details which are not finished off, and it is one of those cases which are worth working out to the very end. If you will come round once more to my rooms, at six o'clock tomorrow, I think I should be able to show you that even now you have not grasped the entire meaning of this business, which presents some features which make it absolutely original in the history of crime. If ever I permit you to chronicle any more of my little problems, Watson, I foresee that you will enliven your pages by an account of the singular adventure of the Napoleonic busts. When we met again next evening, Lestrade was furnished with much information concerning our prisoner. His name, it appeared, was Beppo, second name unknown. He was a well-known ne'er-do-well among the Italian colony. He had once been a skillful sculptor and had earned an honest living, but he had taken to evil courses twice already in jail. Once for a petty theft, and once, as we had already heard, for stabbing a fellow countryman. He could talk English perfectly well. His reasons for destroying the busts were still unknown, and he refused to answer any questions upon the subject. But the police had discovered that the same busts might very well have been made by his own hands since he was engaged in this class of work at the establishment of Geldern Company. To all this information, of which we already knew, Holmes listened with polite attention, but I, who knew him so well, could clearly see that his thoughts were elsewhere, and I detected a mixture of mingled uneasiness and expectation beneath that mask which he was wont to assume. At last he started in his chair and his eyes brightened. There had been a ring at the bell. A minute later we heard steps upon the stairs, and an elderly red-faced man with grizzled side whiskers was ushered in. In his right hand he carried an old-fashioned carpet bag, which he placed upon the table. Is Mr. Sherlock Holmes here? My friend bowed and smiled. Mr. Sanderford, of reading, I suppose, said he. Yes, sir. I fear that I am a little late, but the trains were awkward. You wrote to me about a bust that is in my position. Exactly. I have your letter here. You said I desire to possess a copy of Divine's neporium, and I am prepared to pay you ten pounds for the one which is in your position. Is that right? Certainly. I was very much surprised at your letter, for I could not imagine that you knew that I owned such a thing. Of course you must have been surprised, but the explanation is very simple. Mr. Harding, of Harding Brothers, said that they had sold you their last copy, and he gave me your address. Oh, that was it, was it? Did he tell you what I paid for it? No, he did not. Well, I am an honest man, though not a very rich one. I only gave fifteen shillings for the bust, and I think you ought to know that before I take ten pounds from you. I am sure the scrupled as you honour Mr. Sanderford, but I have named that price, so I intend to stick to it. Well, it is very handsome of you, Mr. Holmes. I brought the bust up with me as you asked me to do. Here it is. He opened his bag, and at last we saw placed upon our table a complete specimen of that bust which we had already seen more than once in fragments. Holmes took a paper from his pocket and laid a ten-pound note upon the table. You will kindly sign that paper, Mr. Sanderford, in the presence of these witnesses. It is simply to say that you transfer every possible right that you ever had in the bust to me. I am a methodical man, you see, and you'll never know what turn events might take afterwards. Thank you, Mr. Sanderford. Here is your money, and I wish you a very good evening. When our visitor had disappeared, Sherlock Holmes' movements were such as to rivet our attention. He began by taking a clean white cloth from a drawer and laying it over the table. Then he placed his newly acquired bust in the centre of the cloth. Finally, he picked up his hunting-crop and struck Napoleon a sharp blow on the top of the head. He broke into fragments, and Holmes bent eagerly over the shattered remains. Next instant, with a loud shout of triumph, he held up one splinter, in which a round, dark object was fixed like a plum in a pudding. Gentlemen, he cried, let me introduce you to the famous black pearl of the Borgia. Lestrade and I sat silent for a moment. And then, with his spontaneous impulse, we both broke it clapping, as at the well-wrought crisis of a play. A flush of colour sprang to Holmes' pale cheeks, and he bowed to us like the master dramatist, who received the homage of his audience. It was at such moments that for an instant he ceased to be a reasoning machine, and betrayed his human love for admiration and applause. The same singularly proud and reserved nature which turned away with disdain from popular notoriety was capable of being moved to its depths by spontaneous wonder and praise from a friend. Yes, gentlemen, said he, it is the most famous pearl no existing in the world, and it has been my good fortune by a connected chain of inductive reasoning to trace it from the Prince of Kelowna's bedroom at the Darker Hotel, where it was lost, to the interior of this, the last of the six busts of Napoleon which were manufactured by Gelderland Company of Stepney. You will remember, Lestrade, the sensation caused by the disappearance of this valuable jewel and the vain efforts of the London police to recover it. I was myself consulted upon the case, but I was unable to throw any light upon it. Suspicion fell upon the maid of the Princess, who was an Italian, and it was proved that she had a brother in London, but we failed to trace any connection between them. The maid's name was Lucretia Venucci, and there is no doubt in my mind that this Pietro, who was murdered two nights ago, was her brother. I have been looking up the dates in the old files of the paper, and I have been looking up the dates in the old files of the paper, and I find that the disappearance of the pearl was exactly two days before the arrest of Beppo for some crime of violence, an event which took place in the factory of Gelderland Company at the very moment when these busts were being made. Now you clearly see the sequence of events, though you see them, of course, in the inverse order to the way in which they presented themselves to me. Beppo had the pearl in his possession. He may have stolen it from Pietro. He may have been Pietro's confederate. He may have been Pietro's confederate. He may have been Pietro's confederate. He may have been the go-between of Pietro and his sister. It is of no consequence to us which is the correct solution. The fact is that he had the pearl. And at that moment, when it was on his person, he was pursued by the police. He made for the factory in which he worked, and he knew that he had only a few minutes in which to conceal this enormously valuable prize, which would otherwise be found on him when he was searched. Six plaster casts of Napoleon were drying in the passage. One of them was still soft. In an instant, Beppo, a skillful workman, made a small hole in the wet plaster, dropped in the pole, and with a few touches covered over the aperture once more. It was an admirable hiding place. No one could possibly find it. But Beppo was condemned to a year's imprisonment. And in the meanwhile, his six busts were scattered over London. He could not tell which contained his treasure, only by breaking them could he see. Even shaking would tell him nothing. For as the plaster was wet, it was probable that the pearl would adhere to it, as, in fact, it has done. Beppo did not despair. And he conducted his research with considerable ingenuity and perseverance. Through a cousin who works with Gelder, he found out the retail firms who had bought the busts. He managed to find employment with Morse Hudson, and in that way tracked down three of them. The pearl was not there. Then, with the help of some Italian employee, he succeeded in finding out where the other three busts had gone. The first was at Harkers. There he was dogged by his confederate, who held Beppo responsible for the loss of the pearl, and he stabbed him in the scuffle which followed. If he was his confederate, why should he carry his photograph? I asked. As a means of tracking him, if he wished to inquire about him from any third person, that was the obvious reason. Well, after the murder, I calculated that Beppo would probably hurry rather than delay his movements. He would fear that the police would read his secret, and so he hastened on before they should get ahead of him. Of course, I could not say that he had not found the pearl in Harkers' bust. I had not even concluded for certain that it was the pearl, but it was evident to me that he was looking for something, since he carried the bust past the other houses in order to break it in the garden which had a lamp overlooking it. Since Harkers' bust was one in three, the chances were exactly as I told you, two to one against the pearl being inside it. There remained two busts, and it was obvious that he would go for the London one first. I warned the inmates of the house, so as to avoid a second tragedy, and we went down with the happiest results. By that time, of course, I knew for certain that it was the bourgeois pearl that we were after. The name of the murdered man linked the one event with the other. There only remained a single bust, the reading one, and the pearl must be there. I bought it in your presence from the owner, and there it lies. We sat in silence for a moment. Well, said Lestrade, I've seen you handle a good many cases, Mr. Holmes, but I don't know that I ever knew a more workman like one than that. We're not jealous of you at Scotland Yard. No, sir. We're very proud of you. And if you come down tomorrow, there's not a man from the oldest inspector to the youngest watchtower who wouldn't be glad to shake you by the hand. Thank you, said Holmes. Thank you. And as he turned away, it seemed to me that he was more nearly moved by the softer human emotions than I had ever seen him. A moment later he was the cold and practical thinker once more. Put the pearl in the safe, Watson, said he, and get out the papers of the Cronk-Singleton forgery case. Goodbye, Lestrade. If any little problem comes your way, I shall be happy, if I can, to give you a hint or two as to its solution. End of The Adventure of the Six Napoleons by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.