The Exploits of Sherlock Holmes

passed the stolen diamonds to his confederate, the milk­man.'

'But, my dear Lestrade—'

The man from Scotland Yard would not listen. As the milk-wagon rumbled towards the gate by which we stood, he hurried forward and held up his hand in its path so that the driver, with a curse, was obliged to rein in even that slow-moving horse.

'I've seen you before,' said Lestrade, in his bullying voice. 'Look sharp, now; I'm a police-officer. Is your name not Hannibal Throgmorton, alias Felix Porteus?'

The milkman's long, clean-shaven face gaped in amaze­ment.

'Me name's Alf Peters,' he returned warmly, 'and here's me roundsman card with me photograph on it and the blinking manager's signature to prove it! Who do you think I am, Governor—Cecil Rhodes?'

'You pull up your socks, my lad, or you'll find your­self in Queer Street. Get down from the wagon! Yes, that's it; get down!' Here Lestrade turned to the two police-constables who accompanied him. 'Burton! Mur­dock! Search that milkman!'

Alf. Peters' howl of protest was strangled as the con­stables seized him. Though lanky and only of middle height, Peters put up such a sporting fight that it was minutes before the constables could complete their search. They found nothing.

'Then the diamonds must be in one of those five-gallon milk-cans! We've no time for kid-glove methods. Pour out the milk on the ground!'

The language of the infuriated milkman, as this was done, cannot be called anything save improper.

'What, nothing there either?' demanded Lestrade. 'Well, he may have swallowed the diamonds. Shall we take him to the nearest police-station?'

'Oh, crickey,' screamed Alf Peters, 'he ain't fit to be loose. He's off his blooming chump! Why don't he take a blooming axe and smash the blooming wagon?'

It was Holmes's strident, authoritative voice which restored order.

'Lestrade! Have the kindness to let Peters go. In the first place, he is unlikely to have swallowed twenty-six diamonds. In the second place, if Mr. Cabpleasure wished to give the diamonds to a fellow-conspirator, why did he not do so late on Tuesday night, when he held a secret conversation with someone at a ground-floor window? His whole behaviour, as described by his wife, becomes as irrational as his conduct with the umbrella. Unless—'

Sherlock Holmes had been standing in moody doubt, his head forward and his arms folded inside his cape. Now, glancing first towards the tradesmen's entrance and then towards the front of the house, he raised his head. Even his cold, emotionless nature could not repress the exclamation which rose to his lips. For a moment he remained motionless, his tall, lean figure outlined against a lightening sky.

'By Jove, Lestrade!' said he. 'Mr. James Cabpleasure is rather a long time in returning with his umbrella.'

'What's that, Mr. Holmes?'

'I might venture to utter a trifling prophecy. I might venture to say Mr. Cabpleasure has gone; that he has already vanished from the house.'

'But he can't possibly have vanished from the house!' cried Lestrade.

'May I ask why not?'

'Because I stationed police-constables all round the house, in case he tried to give us the slip. Every door and window is watched! Not so much as a rat could have got out of that house without being seen, and can't get out now.'

'Nevertheless, Lestrade, I must repeat my little proph­ecy. If you search the house, I think you will find that Mr. Cabpleasure has disappeared like a soapbubble.'

Pausing only to put a police-whistle to his lips, Lestrade plunged towards the house. Alf Peters, the milkman, improved this opportunity to whip up his horse and clatter frantically away as though from the presence of a dangerous lunatic. Even Mr. Mortimer Brown, despite his ven­erable portliness and florid face, ran down the road with his hat clutched to his head, and without having answered whatever query my friend had wished to ask him.

'Hold your peace, Watson,' said Holmes, in his im­perious fashion. 'No, no, I am not joking in what I say. You will find the matter extremely simple when you per­ceive the significance of one point.'

'And what point is that?'

'The true reason why Mr. Cabpleasure cherishes his umbrella,' said Sherlock Holmes.

Slowly the sky strengthened to such wintry brightness that the two gas-lit windows, which I have mentioned as glowing from an upper floor, were paled by the sun.

Ceaselessly the search went on, with far more police-con­stables than seemed necessary.

At the end of a full hour, during which Holmes had not moved, Lestrade rushed out of the house. His face wore a look of horror which I know was reflected in my own.

'It's true, Mr. Holmes! His hat, his greatcoat and his umbrella are lying just inside the front door. But—'

'Yes?'

'I'll take my oath that the villain's not hidden in the house, and yet they all swear he never left it either!'

'Who is in the house now?'

'Only his wife. Last night, after I spoke with him, it seems he gave the servants a night off. Almost drove 'em out of the house, his wife says, without a word of warn­ing. They didn't much like it, some of 'em wondering where they should go, but they had no choice.'

Holmes whistled.

'The wife!' said he. 'By the way, how is it that through all this tumult we have neither seen nor heard Mrs. Gloria Cabpleasure? Is it possible that last night she was drugged? That she found herself growing irresistibly drowsy, and has only recently awakened?'

Lestrade fell back a step as though from the eye of a sorcerer.

'Mr. Holmes, why do you think it was that?'

'Because it could have been nothing else.'

'Well, it's gospel truth. The lady is accustomed to drink a cup of hot meat-juice an hour before going to bed. That meat-juice last night was so doused with powdered opium that there are still traces in the cup.' Lestrade's face darkened. 'But the less I see of that lady, by George, the better I shall like it.'

'At least she has made a good recovery, for I perceive her now at the window.'

'Never mind her,' said Lestrade. 'Just tell me how that thieving diamond-broker vanished slap under our eyes!'

'Holmes,' said I, 'surely there is only one explanation.

Mr. Cabpleasure departed by some secret way or pass­age.'

'There's no such thing,' shouted Lestrade.

'I quite agree,' said Holmes. 'That is a modern house, Watson, or at least one built within the last twenty- odd years. Present-day builders, unlike their ancestors, seldom include a secret passage. But I cannot see, Lestrade, that there is any more I can do here.'

'You can't leave now!'

'Not leave?'

'No! You may be a theorist and not practical, but I can't deny you've given me a bit of help once or twice in the past. If you can guess how a man vanished by a miracle, it's your duty as a citizen to tell me.' Holmes hesitated.

'Very well,' said he. 'There are reasons why I should prefer to be silent for the time being. But perhaps I may give you a hint. Had you thought of disguise?'

For a time Lestrade gripped his hat with both hands. Abruptly he turned round and looked up at the window where Mrs. Cabpleasure contemplated nothingness with a haughty superiority which it seemed nothing could shake.

'By George,' Whispered Lestrade. 'When I was here last night, I never saw Mr. and Mrs. Cabpleasure together. That may account for the false moustache I found hidden in the hall. Only one person was in that house this morn­ing, and one person is still there. That means—' Now it was Holmes's turn to be taken aback. 'Lestrade, what has got into your head at this late date?'