The Exploits of Sherlock Holmes

'The first sale occurred two years past, the second some six months ago,' replied the lawyer hurriedly. 'And now, Mr. Holmes, unless you require my presence, I propose to take Mrs. Longton back to the drawing-room.'

My friend bowed. 'We need not worry Mrs. Longton any further,' said he. 'But I would be glad of a word with the butler.'

While we waited, Holmes strolled to the window and, with his hands behind his back and his chin sunk upon his breast, stared out over the empty landscape. Lestrade, who had returned to his desk, chewed the end of his pen and watched him curiously.

'Ah, Morstead,' said Holmes, as the butler entered. 'Doubtless you are anxious to do everything possible to assist Mr. Longton, and I wish you to understand that we are here with the same purpose.'

The man looked nervously from Lestrade to Holmes.

'Come, now,' my friend continued. 'I am sure that you can help us. For instance, perhaps you can recall whether the squire received any letters by yesterday's post.'

'There was a letter, sir, yes.'

'Ah! Can you tell me more?'

'I'm afraid not, sir. It bore the local postmark and seemed a very ordinary cheap envelope such as they use hereabouts. But I was surprised—' the man hesitated for a moment.

'Yes, something surprised you. Something, perhaps, in the squire's manner?' asked Holmes quietly.

'Yes, sir, that's it. As soon as I gave it to him, he opened it and as he read there came a look in his face that made me glad to get out of the room. When I re­turned later, the squire had gone out and there were bits of burnt paper smouldering in the grate.'

Holmes rubbed his hands together. 'Your assistance is invaluable, Morstead,' said he. 'Now, think carefully. Six months ago, as you probably know, your master sold some land. You cannot, of course, recall a similar letter at about that time?'

'No, sir.'

'Naturally not. Thank you, Morstead, I think that is all.'

Something in his voice made me glance at Holmes and I was amazed at the change in him. His eyes gleamed with excitement and a touch of colour showed in his cheeks.

'Sit down, Watson,' he cried. 'Over there on the trestle.' Then, whipping his lens from his pocket, he commenced his examination.

I watched him enthralled. The blood-stains, the fire­place, the mantelpiece, the very floor itself were subjected to a careful and methodical scrutiny as Holmes crawled about on his hands and knees, his long, thin nose within a few inches of the parquet and the lens in his hands catching an occasional sparkle from the light of the dying sun.

A Persian rug lay in the centre of the room and, on reaching the edge of this, I saw him stiffen suddenly.

'You should have observed this, Lestrade,' he said softly. 'There are faint traces of a foot-mark here.'

'What of it, Mr. Holmes?' grinned Lestrade, with a wink at me. 'Plenty of people have passed over that rug.'

'But it has not rained for days. The boot which made this mark was slightly moist, and I need not tell you that there is something in this room which would easily ac­count for that. Hullo, what have we here?'

Holmes had scraped something from the mat and was closely examining it through his lens. Lestrade and I joined him.

'Well, what is it?'

Without a word, Holmes passed him the lens and held out his hand.

'Dust,' announced Lestrade, peering through the glass.

'Pine-wood dust,' replied Holmes quietly. 'The fine grain is unmistakable. You will note that I scraped it from the traces of the boot-mark.'

'Really, Holmes,' I cried. 'I cannot see—'

My friend looked at me with a gleaming eye. 'Come, Watson,' said he, 'we will stretch our legs as far as the stables.'

In the cobbled yard, we came on a groom drawing water from a pump. I have remarked before that Holmes possessed a gift for putting the working classes at their ease and, after exchanging a few words, the man lost so much of his Sussex reserve that when my friend threw out the suggestion that it might be difficult to name which of the horses had been used by his master on the previous night, the information was instantly forthcoming.

'It was Ranger, sir,' volunteered the groom. 'Here in this stall. You'd like to see her hoofs? Well, why not. There you are, and you can scrape away with your knife to your heart's content and not a stone will you find.'

Holmes, after closely examining a fragment of earth which he had taken from the horse's hoof, placed it carefully in an envelope and, pressing a half-sovereign into the groom's hand, strode out of the yard.

'Well, Watson, it only remains for us to collect our hats and sticks before returning to our inn,' he announced briskly. 'Ah, Lestrade,' he continued, as the Scotland Yard man appeared in the front door. 'I would draw your attention to the fireplace chair.'

'But there is no fireplace chair.'

'That is why I draw your attention to it. Come, Wat­son, there is nothing further to be learned here tonight.'

The evening passed pleasantly enough, though I was somewhat irritated with Holmes who, while refusing to answer any of my questions on the grounds that they could be better answered on the morrow, encouraged our landlord to converse on local topics which could hold no interest whatever for strangers like ourselves.

When I awoke the next morning I was surprised to learn that my friend had breakfasted and gone out some two hours earlier. I was concluding my own breakfast when he strolled in, looking invigorated for his exercise in the open air.

'Where have you been?' I enquired.

'Following the example of the early bird, Watson,' he chuckled. 'If you have finished, then let us drive to Foulkes Rath and pick up Lestrade. There are times when he has his definite uses.'

Half an hour later saw us once more at the old man­sion. Lestrade, who greeted us rather surlily, stared at my companion in amazement.

'But why a walk on the moors, Mr. Holmes?' he snapped. 'What bee has got into your bonnet this time?'

Holmes's face was very stern, as he turned away. 'Very well,' said he. 'I had hoped to give you the undivided credit of capturing the murderer of Squire Addleton.'

Lestrade caught my companion by the arm. 'Man, are you serious?' he demanded. 'But the evidence! Every single fact points clearly to—'

Sherlock Holmes raised his stick and pointed silently down the long slope of fields and heather to the distant wooded valley.

'There,' he said quietly.

It was a walk that I will long remember. I am sure that Lestrade had no more idea than I had of what lay before us as we followed Holmes's tall, spare figure across the meadows and down the rough sheep track that led into the desolation of the moor. It was a mile or more before we reached the beginning of the valley and plunged down into the welcome shade of the pine woods through which the whirring of the steam-saw vibrated like the hum of some monstrous insect. The air grew redolent with the tang of burning wood and a few minutes later we found ourselves among the buildings and timber stacks of the Ashdown Timber Mills.

Holmes led the way without hesitation to a hut marked 'Manager' and knocked sharply. There was a moment of waiting, and then the door was flung open.

I have seldom seen a more formidable figure than the man who stood upon the threshold. He was a giant in stature, with a breadth of shoulders that blocked the doorway and a matted tangle of red beard that hung down over his chest like the mane of a lion. 'What do you want here?' he growled.

'I presume that I have the pleasure of addressing Mr. Thomas Greerly?' asked Holmes politely.

The man remained silent while he bit off a cud of chewing-tobacco, his eyes roving over us in a cold, slow stare.

'What if you have?' he said at length.

'Long Tom to your friends, I think,' said Holmes quietly. 'Well, Mr. Thomas Greerly, it is no thanks to you