“Accept it or not, as you choose,” Moore answered, with some irritation. “I tell you, my firm built these restraints, and I saw them packed off with John Scott to Sumatra. And I saw them again—either these very items, or others from the same lot—less than a month ago, in a warehouse here in London.”
Lestrade’s gaze, fixed on the young American, grew sharper than ever. “I should like to know, sir, just what connection your business with Mr. Holmes has with a certain murder that I have under investigation.”
Moore returned Lestrade’s gaze stonily. “A murder? As far as I know, there is no connection at all.”
“Then you would have no objection to discussing with the police the business that has brought you to Mr. Holmes?”
“As a matter of fact, I have already tried to do so.” Moore’s irritation had grown to anger. “Yesterday morning Miss Sarah Tarlton and I were at Scotland Yard, doing our best to impress the men there with the importance of the matter. It is not our fault that we were put off.”
Lestrade was silenced for the moment. I took the opportunity to outline for him the problem of the missing American physician and his equipment. The inspector listened intently, and I judged that again a new evaluation of the case—of both cases, which now seemed more than ever to be connected—was developing in his mind.
When I was done, Peter Moore inquired: “See here, I now seem to be the only one present who knows only half the story. What is this murder you keep speaking of? Who was killed, and by whom? Is there any evidence that John Scott might have been in any way involved?”
“I don’t see him as the killer at all, sir,” Lestrade answered. “The man who took the things from the warehouse was a cool customer, if nothing else, while our killer’s an absolute maniac if there ever was one. But some connection there must be...Mr. Moore, I apologize in the name of Scotland Yard, for not giving your problem the attention it undoubtedly deserves. Now if you and this young lady, Miss…”
“Sarah Tarlton. She and John were engaged to be married.”
“Ah, yes. Now if you and I were to go and call at Miss Tarlton’s hotel, do you suppose that she would be willing to come along to the Yard with us and tell her story again? I’ll give my solemn word that this time she’ll be listened to.”
“I’m sure Sarah will agree, if it will help to find him.”
Carrying off his oilcloth bag of evidence in one hand, while the other rested in most friendly fashion on the arm of Peter Moore, Lestrade very soon bade me good-bye. I stood for a moment at the window, and watched the two men get into a four-wheeler.
It was to be a busy evening at Baker Street. Scarcely had I finished my solitary dinner, when two visitors were announced. Once again Sarah Tarlton and Peter Moore entered our sitting room, this time together. Both were badly upset, and Miss Tarlton in particular was almost speechless with indignant rage. It did not take me long to learn the cause.
“Oh, Dr. Watson, that dreadful little man! We had been talking to him in his office for five minutes before I got the drift of his questions...oh, it makes my blood boil to think of it! He suspects. John of...oh, I can’t talk about it!”
Moore, himself pale but much less distraught than the young lady, alternately held her hand and patted her arm, with a concern perhaps something more than merely friendly. “It was just as Sarah says, Dr. Watson. The inspector wouldn’t come right out and say so, but I’m sure this sudden interest of the police in finding John is only because they suspect him of being—involved— in this horrible murder. As I understand it, they think some violent patient of his must have escaped...it’s really completely stupid. Where’s Mr. Holmes? Is he ever coming back?”
Suddenly Miss Tarlton’s anger was temporarily exhausted, and she trembled on the verge of tears. “If only they would simply look for John—I keep picturing them shooting him down like a dog, on sight...”
Glad to be able at last to say something genuinely helpful, I hastened to reassure her that the Metropolitan Police were not generally in the habit of carrying firearms (though I knew that Lestrade for one was seldom without his pocket pistol), let alone discharging them promiscuously at suspects. When I had repeated my assurances several times Miss Tarlton seemed at last willing to believe them, but her general anxiety for her fiancé was scarcely abated.
She dabbed at her eyes. “Dr. Watson, we are abusing your kindness, taking up your time...”
“Not at all. Not a bit.”
“Did Mr. Holmes seem hopeful when he went out? Have you no idea at all when he’ll be back?”
“Hopeful? That would be difficult to say,” I replied. “I do not even know whether the fresh trail he mentions in his telegram is connected with Dr. Scott’s case or some other. As to when he will return, I speak from long experience when I say it may not be till morning, or even later.”
Peter Moore pressed the girl’s hand again. “Come along now, Sarah. I’ll see you back to the hotel.”
“I will not be soothed and quieted!” she burst out.
“Not while they are hunting John, who may be out there somewhere, needing me! He could be ill or dying—God, how can I simply rest?”
“Sarah, you
