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a-burninā€™. There was a candle flickerinā€™ on the mantelpieceā ā€”a red wax oneā ā€”and by its light I sawā ā€”ā€

ā€œYes, I know all that you saw. You walked round the room several times, and you knelt down by the body, and then you walked through and tried the kitchen door, and thenā ā€”ā€

John Rance sprang to his feet with a frightened face and suspicion in his eyes. ā€œWhere was you hid to see all that?ā€ he cried. ā€œIt seems to me that you knows a deal more than you should.ā€

Holmes laughed and threw his card across the table to the constable. ā€œDonā€™t get arresting me for the murder,ā€ he said. ā€œI am one of the hounds and not the wolf; Mr. Gregson or Mr. Lestrade will answer for that. Go on, though. What did you do next?ā€

Rance resumed his seat, without however losing his mystified expression. ā€œI went back to the gate and sounded my whistle. That brought Murcher and two more to the spot.ā€

ā€œWas the street empty then?ā€

ā€œWell, it was, as far as anybody that could be of any good goes.ā€

ā€œWhat do you mean?ā€

The constableā€™s features broadened into a grin. ā€œIā€™ve seen many a drunk chap in my time,ā€ he said, ā€œbut never anyone so cryinā€™ drunk as that cove. He was at the gate when I came out, a-leaninā€™ up agin the railings, and a-singinā€™ at the pitch oā€™ his lungs about Columbineā€™s Newfangled Banner, or some such stuff. He couldnā€™t stand, far less help.ā€

ā€œWhat sort of a man was he?ā€ asked Sherlock Holmes.

John Rance appeared to be somewhat irritated at this digression. ā€œHe was an uncommon drunk sort oā€™ man,ā€ he said. ā€œHeā€™d haā€™ found hisself in the station if we hadnā€™t been so took up.ā€

ā€œHis faceā ā€”his dressā ā€”didnā€™t you notice them?ā€ Holmes broke in impatiently.

ā€œI should think I did notice them, seeing that I had to prop him upā ā€”me and Murcher between us. He was a long chap, with a red face, the lower part muffled roundā ā€”ā€

ā€œThat will do,ā€ cried Holmes. ā€œWhat became of him?ā€

ā€œWeā€™d enough to do without lookinā€™ after him,ā€ the policeman said, in an aggrieved voice. ā€œIā€™ll wager he found his way home all right.ā€

ā€œHow was he dressed?ā€

ā€œA brown overcoat.ā€

ā€œHad he a whip in his hand?ā€

ā€œA whipā ā€”no.ā€

ā€œHe must have left it behind,ā€ muttered my companion. ā€œYou didnā€™t happen to see or hear a cab after that?ā€

ā€œNo.ā€

ā€œThereā€™s a half-sovereign for you,ā€ my companion said, standing up and taking his hat. ā€œI am afraid, Rance, that you will never rise in the force. That head of yours should be for use as well as ornament. You might have gained your sergeantā€™s stripes last night. The man whom you held in your hands is the man who holds the clue of this mystery, and whom we are seeking. There is no use of arguing about it now; I tell you that it is so. Come along, Doctor.ā€

We started off for the cab together, leaving our informant incredulous, but obviously uncomfortable.

ā€œThe blundering fool,ā€ Holmes said, bitterly, as we drove back to our lodgings. ā€œJust to think of his having such an incomparable bit of good luck, and not taking advantage of it.ā€

ā€œI am rather in the dark still. It is true that the description of this man tallies with your idea of the second party in this mystery. But why should he come back to the house after leaving it? That is not the way of criminals.ā€

ā€œThe ring, man, the ring: that was what he came back for. If we have no other way of catching him, we can always bait our line with the ring. I shall have him, Doctorā ā€”Iā€™ll lay you two to one that I have him. I must thank you for it all. I might not have gone but for you, and so have missed the finest study I ever came across: a study in scarlet, eh? Why shouldnā€™t we use a little art jargon. Thereā€™s the scarlet thread of murder running through the colourless skein of life, and our duty is to unravel it, and isolate it, and expose every inch of it. And now for lunch, and then for Norman Neruda. Her attack and her bowing are splendid. Whatā€™s that little thing of Chopinā€™s she plays so magnificently: Tra-la-la-lira-lira-lay.ā€

Leaning back in the cab, this amateur bloodhound carolled away like a lark while I meditated upon the many-sidedness of the human mind.

V Our Advertisement Brings a Visitor

Our morningā€™s exertions had been too much for my weak health, and I was tired out in the afternoon. After Holmesā€™ departure for the concert, I lay down upon the sofa and endeavoured to get a couple of hoursā€™ sleep. It was a useless attempt. My mind had been too much excited by all that had occurred, and the strangest fancies and surmises crowded into it. Every time that I closed my eyes I saw before me the distorted baboon-like countenance of the murdered man. So sinister was the impression which that face had produced upon me that I found it difficult to feel anything but gratitude for him who had removed its owner from the world. If ever human features bespoke vice of the most malignant type, they were certainly those of Enoch J. Drebber, of Cleveland. Still I recognized that justice must be done, and that the depravity of the victim was no condonement in the eyes of the law.

The more I thought of it the more extraordinary did my companionā€™s hypothesis, that the man had been poisoned, appear. I remembered how he had sniffed his lips, and had no doubt that he had detected something which had given rise to the idea. Then, again, if not poison, what had caused the manā€™s death, since there was neither wound nor marks of strangulation? But, on the other hand, whose blood was that which lay so thickly upon the floor? There were no signs of a struggle, nor had the victim any weapon with which he might have wounded an antagonist. As long as all these questions

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