The Exploits of Sherlock Holmes

well.'

The harsh, eager lines of his face softened. 'Good old Watson!' said he. 'Always hurrying to the rescue of beauty in distress. And a pretty hash you have made of it, upon occasion.'

'Then I trust,' I replied with dignity, 'that your own mission on the Continent was a success?'

'A touch, Watson! Pray forgive my outburst of nerves. No, my mission was not a success. It seemed to me that I had a direct summons to a certain European city whose name you will readily infer. I went there, and returned in what I fancy is record time.'

'Well?'

'The—Mr. Hendon, Watson, is a badly frightened man. Yet he is not without wit. No sooner had he left Switzerland, than he must have divined that the false letter was a decoy to trap him. But I lost him. Where is he now? And be good enough to explain why you should call him a scoundrel.'

'I spoke, perhaps, in the heat of the moment. Yet I cannot help disliking the fellow.'

'Why?'

'In one of doubtless exalted position, a certain elab­orateness of manner is permissible. But he bows too much! He makes scenes in public. He affects the Con­tinental habit of addressing an English lady as 'madame,' instead of an honest 'madam.' Holmes, it is all con­foundedly un-English!'

My friend regarded me strangely, as though taken aback, and was about to reply when we heard the clatter of a four-wheeler drawing up outside our street-door. Less than a minute later Celia Forsythe was in the room, followed by a small, hard-looking, dogged man in a bowler hat with a curly brim. From his mutton-chop whiskers I deduced him to be Trepley, the man-servant.

Miss Forsythe's face was aglow with the cold. She wore a short fur jacket, and carried a dainty muff.

'Mr. Holmes,' she burst out without preamble, 'Charles is in England!'

'So I had already supposed. And where is he?'

'At Groxton Low Hall. I should have sent a telegram yesterday, save that Lady Mayo forbade me to do so.'

'Fool that I am!' said Holmes, striking his fist upon the desk. 'You spoke of its isolation, I think. Watson! Will you oblige me with the large-scale map of Surrey? Thank you.' His voice grew more harsh. 'What's this, what's this?'

'My dear fellow,' I expostulated, 'can you read villainy in a map?'

'Open country, Watson! Fields. Woods. The nearest railway station fully three miles from Groxton Low Hall!' Holmes groaned. 'Miss Forsythe, Miss Forsythe, you have much to answer for!'

The young lady fell back a step in amazement.

'I have much to answer for?' she cried. 'Can you credit me, sir, when I tell you that so much continued mystery has all but driven the wits from my head? Neither Charles nor Lady Mayo will speak a word.'

'Of explanation?'

'Precisely!' She nodded her head towards the servant. 'Charles has sent Trepley to London with a letter, to be delivered by hand, and I am not even suffered to know its contents.'

'Sorry, miss,' observed the little man, gruffly but deferentially. 'That's orders.'

For the first time I noted  that Trepley, who was dressed more like a groom than a manservant, jealously pressed an envelope flat between his hands as though he feared someone might snatch it away. His pale eyes, framed in the mutton-chop whiskers, moved slowly round the room. Sherlock Holmes advanced towards him.

'You will be good enough to show me that envelope, my man,' he said.

I have often remarked that a stupid person is the most doggedly loyal. Trepley's eyes were almost those of a fanatic.

'Begging your pardon, sir, but I will not. I will do as I have been ordered, come what may!'

'I tell you, man, this is no time to hesitate. I don't wish to read the letter. I wish merely to see the address on the front and the seal on the back. Quickly, now! It may mean your master's life!'

Trepley hesitated and moistened his lips. Gingerly, still gripping one corner of the envelope, he held it out with­out releasing it. Holmes whistled.

'Come!' said he. 'It is addressed to no less a person­age than Sir Charles Warren, the Commissioner of Metro­politan Police. And the seal? Ah! Just as I thought. You are engaged to deliver this letter at once?'

'Yes, Mr. Holmes.'

'Then off with you! But detain the four-wheeler, for the rest of us will want it presently.'

He did not speak until Trepley had clattered down the stairs. But the old feverishness was again upon him.

'And now, Watson, you might just look up the trams in Bradshaw. Are you armed?'

'My stick.'

'For once, I fear, it may prove inadequate.' And he opened the left-hand drawer of the desk-table. 'Oblige me by slipping this into your greatcoat pocket. A .320 Webley, with Eley's No. 2 cartridges—'

As the light gleamed on the barrel of the revolver, Celia Forsythe uttered a cry and put one hand on the mantelpiece to steady herself.

'Mr. Holmes!' she began, and then seemed to change her mind. 'There are frequent trains to Groxton station, which, as you say, is three miles from the Hall. Indeed, there is one in twenty minutes.'

'Excellent!'

'But we must not take it'

'Must not take it, madam?'

'I have had no time to tell you, but Lady Mayo herself now appeals to you for help. Only this afternoon I persuaded her. Lady Mayo requests that we three take the 10:25, which is the last train. She will meet us at Grox­ ton station with the carriage.' Miss Forsythe bit her lip. 'Lady Mayo, despite her kindness, is—imperious. We must not miss that last train!'

And yet we very nearly missed it. Having forgotten streets of frozen mud, and the crush of vehicles under blue, sputtering arc-lamps, we arrived at Waterloo only just in time.

Presently, as the train emerged into open country, our dim-lit compartment took on a greater quality of eeriness with each click of the wheels. Holmes sat silent, bending slightly forward. I could see his hawk-like profile, under the fore and aft cap, clear-cut against the cold radiance of a full moon. It was nearly half-past eleven when we alighted at a wayside station whose village had long been lightless and asleep.

Nothing stirred there. No dog barked. Near the station stood an open landau, without a clink of harness from the horses. Bolt upright sat the coachman, as motionless as the squat elderly lady who sat in the back of the landau, watching us stonily as we approached.

Miss Forsythe eagerly began to speak, but the elderly lady, who was wrapped in grey furs and had a good deal of nose, raised a hand to forestall her.

'Mr. Sherlock Holmes?' she said, in a singularly deep and musical voice, 'and this other gentleman, I take it, is Dr. Watson. I am Lady Mayo.'

She scrutinized us for a moment with a pair of sin­gularly sharp and penetrating eyes.

'Pray enter the landau,' she continued. 'You will find quite a number of carriage-rugs. Though I deplore the necessity of offering an open conveyance on so cold a night, my coachman's fondness for fast driving,' and she indicated the driver, who hunched up his shoulders, 'has contrived to break the axle of the closed carriage. To the Hall, Billings! Make haste!'

The whip cracked. With an uneasy swing of the rear wheels, our landau was off at a smart pace along a narrow road bordered with spiky hedgerows and skeleton trees.

'But I did not mind,' said Lady Mayo. 'Lackaday, Mr. Holmes! I am a very old woman. My youth was a time of fast driving; ay, and of fast living too.'

'Was it also a time of fast dying?' asked my friend. 'Such a death, for instance, as may overtake our young friend tonight?'

The hoof-beats rang on the icy road.

'I think, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,' said she quietly, 'that you and I understand each other.'

'I am sure of it, Lady Mayo. But you have not an­swered my question,'

'Have no fear, Mr. Holmes. He is safe now.'

'You are certain?'