Turning his back upon us he laid down his burden, and the nextinstant there was the sound of a sharp tap, followed by a clatterand rattle. The man was so intent upon what he was doing thathe never heard our steps as we stole across the grass plot. Withthe bound of a tiger Holmes was on his back, and an instant laterLestrade and I had him by either wrist, and the handcuffs hadbeen fastened. As we turned him over I saw a hideous, sallow face,with writhing, furious features, glaring up at us, and I knew that itwas indeed the man of the photograph whom we had secured.
But it was not our prisoner to whom Holmes was giving hisattention. Squatted on the doorstep, he was engaged in mostcarefully examining that which the man had brought from thehouse. It was a bust of Napoleon, like the one which we had seenthat morning, and it had been broken into similar fragments.
Carefully Holmes held each separate shard to the light, but in noway did it differ from any other shattered piece of plaster. He hadjust completed his examination when the hall lights flew up, thedoor opened, and the owner of the house, a jovial, rotund figure inshirt and trousers, presented himself.
“Mr. Josiah Brown, I suppose?” said Holmes.
“Yes, sir; and you, no doubt, are Mr. Sherlock Holmes? I had thenote which you sent by the express messenger, and I did exactlywhat you told me. We locked every door on the inside and awaiteddevelopments. Well, I’m very glad to see that you have got therascal. I hope, gentlemen, that you will come in and have somerefreshment.”
However, Lestrade was anxious to get his man into safe quarters,so within a few minutes our cab had been summoned and we were allfour upon our way to London. Not a word would our captive say, buthe glared at us from the shadow of his matted hair, and once, whenmy hand seemed within his reach, he snapped at it like a hungry wolf.
We stayed long enough at the police-station to learn that a search ofhis clothing revealed nothing save a few shillings and a long sheathknife, the handle of which bore copious traces of recent blood.
“That’s all right,” said Lestrade, as we parted. “Hill knows all thesegentry, and he will give a name to him. You’ll find that my theoryof the Mafia will work out all right. But I’m sure I am exceedinglyobliged to you, Mr. Holmes, for the workmanlike way in which youlaid hands upon him. I don’t quite understand it all yet.”
“I fear it is rather too late an hour for explanations,” said Holmes.
“Besides, there are one or two details which are not finished off, andit is one of those cases which are worth working out to the veryend. If you will come round once more to my rooms at six o’clockto-morrow, I think I shall be able to show you that even nowyou have not grasped the entire meaning of this business, whichpresents some features which make it absolutely original in thehistory of crime. If ever I permit you to chronicle any more of mylittle problems, Watson, I foresee that you will enliven your pagesby an account of the singular adventure of the Napoleonic busts.”
When we met again next evening, Lestrade was furnished withmuch information concerning our prisoner. His name, it appeared,was Beppo, second name unknown. He was a well-known ne’erdo-well among the Italian colony. He had once been a skilfulsculptor and had earned an honest living, but he had taken toevil courses and had twice already been in jail—once for a pettytheft, and once, as we had already heard, for stabbing a fellowcountryman.
He could talk English perfectly well. His reasons fordestroying the busts were still unknown, and he refused to answerany questions upon the subject, but the police had discovered thatthese same busts might very well have been made by his own hands,since he was engaged in this class of work at the establishment ofGelder & Co. To all this information, much of which we alreadyknew, Holmes listened with polite attention, but I, who knew himso well, could clearly see that his thoughts were elsewhere, and Idetected a mixture of mingled uneasiness and expectation beneaththat mask which he was wont to assume. At last he started in hischair, and his eyes brightened. There had been a ring at the bell. Aminute later we heard steps upon the stairs, and an elderly red-facedman with grizzled side-whiskers was ushered in. In his right hand hecarried an old-fashioned carpet-bag, which he placed upon the table.
“Is Mr. Sherlock Holmes here?”
My friend bowed and smiled. “Mr. Sandeford, of Reading, Isuppose?” said he.
“Yes, sir, I fear that I am a little late, but the trains were awkward.
You wrote to me about a bust that is in my possession.”
“Exactly.”
“I have your letter here. You said, ‘I desire to possess a copy ofDevine’s Napoleon, and am prepared to pay you ten pounds forthe one which is in your possession.’ Is that right?”
“Certainly.”
“I was very much surprised at your letter, for I could notimagine how you knew that I owned such a thing.”
“Of course you must have been surprised, but the explanation isvery simple. Mr. Harding, of Harding Brothers, said that they hadsold you their last copy, and he gave me your address.”
“Oh, that was it, was it? Did he tell you what I paid for it?”
“No, he did not.”
“Well, I am an honest man, though not a very rich one. I onlygave fifteen shillings for the bust, and I think you ought to knowthat before I take ten pounds from you.
“I am sure the scruple does you honour, Mr. Sandeford. But Ihave named that price, so I intend to stick to it.”
“Well, it is very handsome of you, Mr. Holmes. I brought thebust up with me, as you asked me to do. Here it is!” He openedhis bag, and at last we saw placed upon our table a completespecimen of that bust which we had already seen more than oncein fragments.
Holmes took a paper from his pocket and laid a ten-pound noteupon the table.
