The place was pitch dark, but it was evident to me that it wasan empty house. Our feet creaked and crackled over the bareplanking, and my outstretched hand touched a wall from whichthe paper was hanging in ribbons. Holmes’s cold, thin fingersclosed round my wrist and led me forward down a long hall, until Idimly saw the murky fanlight over the door. Here Holmes turnedsuddenly to the right and we found ourselves in a large, square,empty room, heavily shadowed in the corners, but faintly lit in thecentre from the lights of the street beyond. There was no lampnear, and the window was thick with dust, so that we could onlyjust discern each other’s figures within. My companion put hishand upon my shoulder and his lips close to my ear.
“Do you know where we are?” he whispered.
“Surely that is Baker Street,” I answered, staring through thedim window.
“Exactly. We are in Camden House, which stands opposite toour own old quarters.”
“But why are we here?”
“Because it commands so excellent a view of that picturesquepile. Might I trouble you, my dear Watson, to draw a little nearerto the window, taking every precaution not to show yourself, andthen to look up at our old rooms—the starting-point of so manyof your little fairy-tales? We will see if my three years of absencehave entirely taken away my power to surprise you.”
I crept forward and looked across at the familiar window. Asmy eyes fell upon it, I gave a gasp and a cry of amazement. Theblind was down, and a strong light was burning in the room. Theshadow of a man who was seated in a chair within was thrownin hard, black outline upon the luminous screen of the window.
There was no mistaking the poise of the head, the squarenessof the shoulders, the sharpness of the features. The face wasturned half-round, and the effect was that of one of those blacksilhouettes which our grandparents loved to frame. It was aperfect reproduction of Holmes. So amazed was I that I threw outmy hand to make sure that the man himself was standing besideme. He was quivering with silent laughter.
“Well?” said he.
“Good heavens!” I cried. “It is marvellous.”
“I trust that age doth not wither nor custom stale my infinitevariety,” said he, and I recognized in his voice the joy and pridewhich the artist takes in his own creation. “It really is rather likeme, is it not?”
“I should be prepared to swear that it was you.”
“The credit of the execution is due to Monsieur Oscar Meunier,of Grenoble, who spent some days in doing the moulding. It is abust in wax. The rest I arranged myself during my visit to BakerStreet this afternoon.”
“But why?”
“Because, my dear Watson, I had the strongest possible reasonfor wishing certain people to think that I was there when I wasreally elsewhere.”
“And you thought the rooms were watched?”
“I KNEW that they were watched.”
“By whom?”
“By my old enemies, Watson. By the charming society whoseleader lies in the Reichenbach Fall. You must remember that theyknew, and only they knew, that I was still alive. Sooner or laterthey believed that I should come back to my rooms. They watchedthem continuously, and this morning they saw me arrive.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I recognized their sentinel when I glanced out ofmy window. He is a harmless enough fellow, Parker by name, agarroter by trade, and a remarkable performer upon the jew’sharp.
I cared nothing for him. But I cared a great deal for themuch more formidable person who was behind him, the bosomfriend of Moriarty, the man who dropped the rocks over the cliff,the most cunning and dangerous criminal in London. That is theman who is after me to-night Watson, and that is the man who isquite unaware that we are after him.”
My friend’s plans were gradually revealing themselves. Fromthis convenient retreat, the watchers were being watched and thetrackers tracked. That angular shadow up yonder was the bait, andwe were the hunters. In silence we stood together in the darknessand watched the hurrying figures who passed and repassed infront of us. Holmes was silent and motionless; but I could tellthat he was keenly alert, and that his eyes were fixed intentlyupon the stream of passers-by. It was a bleak and boisterous nightand the wind whistled shrilly down the long street. Many peoplewere moving to and fro, most of them muffled in their coats andcravats. Once or twice it seemed to me that I had seen the samefigure before, and I especially noticed two men who appearedto be sheltering themselves from the wind in the doorway of ahouse some distance up the street. I tried to draw my companion’sattention to them; but he gave a little ejaculation of impatience,and continued to stare into the street. More than once he fidgetedwith his feet and tapped rapidly with his fingers upon the wall.
It was evident to me that he was becoming uneasy, and that hisplans were not working out altogether as he had hoped. At last, asmidnight approached and the street gradually cleared, he pacedup and down the room in uncontrollable agitation. I was about tomake some remark to him, when I raised my eyes to the lightedwindow, and again experienced almost as great a surprise as before.
I clutched Holmes’s arm, and pointed upward.
“The shadow has moved!” I cried.
It was indeed no longer the profile, but the back, which wasturned towards us.
Three years had certainly not smoothed the asperities of histemper or his impatience with a less active intelligence than hisown.
