The Exploits of Sherlock Holmes

a problem as this, actually crave it—'

Though he did not complete the sentence, I echoed the sentiments he must have felt.

'Holmes, that lady is no true Scotswoman! What is more, though it grieves me to say so, I would wager a year's half-pay she is no relation whatever to The McRea of McRea.'

'You seem a little warm, Watson, upon the subject of your own forebears' ancestral homeland. Still, I can­not blame you. Such airs as Mrs. Cabpleasure's become a trifle ridiculous when worn at second-hand. But how to fathom the secret of the umbrella?'

Going to the window, I was just in time to see the white bird on the hat of our late visitor disappearing inside a four-wheeler. A chocolate-coloured omnibus of the Baker Street and Waterloo line rattled past through deepening dusk. The outside passengers of the omnibus, all twelve of them, had their umbrellas raised against a rawer, colder fall of rain. Seeing only a forest of umbrellas, I turned from the window in despair.

'Holmes, what will you do?'

'Well, the hour is a little late to pursue an obvious line of enquiry in Hatton Garden. Mr. James Cabpleasure, with his glossy moustache and his much-prized umbrella, must wait until tomorrow.'

Accordingly, with no premonition of the thunderbolt in store, I accompanied my friend to Happiness Villa, The Arbour, Highgate, at twenty minutes past eight on the following morning.

It was pitch dark when we took breakfast by gaslight. But the rain had ceased, and the sky cleared into quiet, shivering cold. By the time a hansom set us down before Mr. and Mrs. Cabpleasure's house, there was enough grey light so that we could see the outlines of our surroundings.

The house was a large one. Set some thirty yards back from the road, behind a waist-high stone wall, it was built of stucco in the Gothic style, with sham battlements and also a sham turret. Even the front door was set inside a panelled entry beyond an open Gothic arch. Though the entry lay in darkness, two windows glowed yellow on the floor above.

Sherlock Holmes, in his Inverness cape and ear-flapped travelling-cap, looked eagerly around him.

'Ha!' said he, placing his hand on the waist-high wall along the road. 'Semi-circle of carriage-drive, I see, entering the ground through a gate in the wall there,' and he nodded towards a point some distance ahead of us on the pavement. 'The carriage-drive passes the front door, with one narrow branch towards a tradesmen's entrance, and returns to the road through a second gate in the wall —here beside us. Hullo, look there!'

'Is anything wrong?'

'Look ahead, Watson! There, by the far gate in the wall! That can't be Inspector Lestrade? By Jove, it is Lestrade!'

A wiry little bulldog of a man, in a hard hat and a plaid greatcoat, was already hurrying towards us along the pavement. Behind him I could see the helmets of at least two police-constables, like twins with their blue bulk and heavy moustaches.

'Don't tell me, Lestrade,' cried Holmes, 'that Mrs. Cabpleasure also paid a visit to Scotland Yard?'

'If she did, Mr. Holmes, she went to the right shop,' said Lestrade, with much complacence. 'Hallo, Dr. Watson! It must be fifteen years and a bit since I first met you, but Mr. Holmes here is still the theorist and I'm still the practical man.'

'Quick, Lestrade!' said Holmes. 'The lady must have told you much the same story as she told us. When did she call upon you?'

'Yesterday morning. We're quick movers at Scotland Yard. We spent the rest of the day investigating this Mr. James Cabpleasure.'

'Indeed? What did you discover?'

'Well, everybody thinks highly of the gentleman, and seems to like him. Outside office hours he is a hard read­er, almost a bookworm, and his wife don't like that. But he's a great mimic, they say, and got quite a sense of humour.'

'Yes, I fancied he must have a sense of humor.'

'You've met him, Mr. Holmes?'

'No, but I have met his wife.'

'Anyway, I met him last night. Paid a visit to take his measure. Oh, only on a pretext! Nothing to put him on his guard, of course.'

'No, of course not,' said Holmes, with a groan. 'Tell me, Lestrade: have you not discovered that this gentleman has a reputation for complete honesty?'

'Yes, that's what makes it so suspicious,' said Lestrade, with a cunning look. 'By George, Mr. Holmes! I'm bound to admit I don't much like his lady, but she's got a very clear head. By George! I'll clap the darbies on that gentle­man before you can say Jack Robinson!'

'My dear Lestrade! You will clap the handcuffs on him for what offence?'

'Why, because—stop!' cried Lestrade. 'Hallo! You, there! Stand where you are!'

We had advanced to meet Lestrade until we were all half-way between the two gates in the low boundary wall. Now Lestrade had dashed past us towards the gate near which we had been standing at the beginning. There, as though conjured from the raw morning murk, was a portly and florid-faced gentleman, rather nervous-looking, in a grey top hat and a handsome grey greatcoat.

'I must ask you, sir,' cried Lestrade, with more dignity as he noted the newcomer's costly dress, 'to state your name, and give some account of yourself.'

The portly newcomer, even more nervous, cleared his throat.

'Certainly,' said he. 'My name is Harold Mortimer Brown, and I am Mr. Cabpleasure's partner in the firm of Cabpleasure & Brown. I dismissed my hansom a short way down the road. I—er—live in South London.'

'You live in South London,' said Lestrade, 'yet you have come all the way to the heights of North London? Why?'

'My dear Mr. Mortimer Brown,' interposed Holmes, with a suavity which clearly brought relief to the florid- faced man, 'you must forgive a certain impulsiveness on the part of my old friend Inspector Lestrade, who is from Scotland Yard. My name is Sherlock Holmes, and I shall be deeply indebted to you if you will be good enough to answer only one question. Did your partner really steal—'

'Stop!' Lestrade exclaimed again.

This time he whipped round to look at the far gate. A milk-wagon, its large and laden cans of milk clanking to the clop of the horse's hoofs, went jolting through that gate and up the curve of the gravelled drive towards the house in stucco Gothic.

Lestrade quivered like the little bulldog he was.

'That milk-wagon will bear watching,' cried he. 'Any­way, let's hope it won't obstruct our view of the front door.'

Fortunately, it did not obstruct our view. The milk­man, whistling merrily, jumped down from the wagon and went into the entry to fill the small milk-jug which we later found was waiting for him outside the front door. But, no sooner had he disappeared under the Gothic arch of the entry, than all thought of the milk-wagon was driven from my mind.

'Mr. Holmes!' whispered Lestrade in a tense voice.

'There he is!'

Clearly we heard the slam of the front door. Distin­guished-looking in glossy hat and heavy greatcoat, there emerged into the drive a conspicuously moustached gen­tleman whom I deduced, correctly enough, to be Mr. James Cabpleasure on the way to his office.

'Mr. Holmes!' repeated Lestrade. 'He hasn't got his umbrella!'

It was as though Lestrade's very thought winged through the grey bleakness into Mr. Cabpleasure's brain. Abruptly the diamond-broker halted in the drive. As though galvanized, he looked up at the sky. Uttering a wordless cry which I confess struck a chill into my heart, he rushed back into the house.

Again the front door slammed. A clearly astonished milkman, turning round to glance back, said something inaudible before he climbed to the seat of the wagon.

'I see it all,' declared Lestrade, snapping his fingers. 'They think they can deceive me, but they can't. Mr. Holmes, I must stop that milkman!'

'In heaven's name, why should you stop the milkman?'

'He and Mr. Cabpleasure were close to each other in that entry. I saw them! Mr. Cabpleasure could have