Holmes remarked, as we travelled back to town. “It hinged fromthe outset upon the pince-nez. But for the fortunate chance ofthe dying man having seized these, I am not sure that we couldever have reached our solution. It was clear to me, from thestrength of the glasses, that the wearer must have been veryblind and helpless when deprived of them. When you asked meto believe that she walked along a narrow strip of grass withoutonce making a false step, I remarked, as you may remember, thatit was a noteworthy performance. In my mind I set it down asan impossible performance, save in the unlikely case that shehad a second pair of glasses. I was forced, therefore, to considerseriously the hypothesis that she had remained within the house.
On perceiving the similarity of the two corridors, it became clearthat she might very easily have made such a mistake, and, in thatcase, it was evident that she must have entered the professor’sroom. I was keenly on the alert, therefore, for whatever wouldbear out this supposition, and I examined the room narrowlyfor anything in the shape of a hiding-place. The carpet seemedcontinuous and firmly nailed, so I dismissed the idea of a trapdoor.
There might well be a recess behind the books. As you areaware, such devices are common in old libraries. I observed thatbooks were piled on the floor at all other points, but that onebookcase was left clear. This, then, might be the door. I couldsee no marks to guide me, but the carpet was of a dun colour,which lends itself very well to examination. I therefore smokeda great number of those excellent cigarettes, and I droppedthe ash all over the space in front of the suspected bookcase.
It was a simple trick, but exceedingly effective. I then wentdownstairs, and I ascertained, in your presence, Watson, withoutyour perceiving the drift of my remarks, that Professor Coram’sconsumption of food had increased—as one would expect whenhe is supplying a second person. We then ascended to the roomagain, when, by upsetting the cigarette-box, I obtained a veryexcellent view of the floor, and was able to see quite clearly, fromthe traces upon the cigarette ash, that the prisoner had in ourabsence come out from her retreat. Well, Hopkins, here we areat Charing Cross, and I congratulate you on having brought yourcase to a successful conclusion. You are going to headquarters,no doubt. I think, Watson, you and I will drive together to theRussian Embassy.”
The Adventure of the Missing Three-Quarter
We were fairly accustomed to receive weird telegrams at BakerStreet, but I have a particular recollection of one which reachedus on a gloomy February morning, some seven or eight years ago,and gave Mr. Sherlock Holmes a puzzled quarter of an hour. It wasaddressed to him, and ran thus:
Please await me. Terrible misfortune. Right wing three-quartermissing, indispensable to-morrow.
OVERTON.
“Strand postmark, and dispatched ten thirty-six,” said Holmes,reading it over and over. “Mr. Overton was evidently considerablyexcited when he sent it, and somewhat incoherent in consequence.
Well, well, he will be here, I daresay, by the time I have looked throughthe TIMES, and then we shall know all about it. Even the mostinsignificant problem would be welcome in these stagnant days.”
Things had indeed been very slow with us, and I had learned todread such periods of inaction, for I knew by experience that mycompanion’s brain was so abnormally active that it was dangerousto leave it without material upon which to work. For years I hadgradually weaned him from that drug mania which had threatenedonce to check his remarkable career. Now I knew that underordinary conditions he no longer craved for this artificial stimulus,but I was well aware that the fiend was not dead but sleeping,and I have known that the sleep was a light one and the wakingnear when in periods of idleness I have seen the drawn lookupon Holmes’s ascetic face, and the brooding of his deep-set andinscrutable eyes. Therefore I blessed this Mr. Overton whoever hemight be, since he had come with his enigmatic message to breakthat dangerous calm which brought more peril to my friend thanall the storms of his tempestuous life.
As we had expected, the telegram was soon followed by itssender, and the card of Mr. Cyril Overton, Trinity College,Cambridge, announced the arrival of an enormous young man,sixteen stone of solid bone and muscle, who spanned the doorwaywith his broad shoulders, and looked from one of us to the otherwith a comely face which was haggard with anxiety.
“Mr. Sherlock Holmes?”
My companion bowed.
“I’ve been down to Scotland Yard, Mr. Holmes. I saw InspectorStanley Hopkins. He advised me to come to you. He said the case,so far as he could see, was more in your line than in that of theregular police.”
“Pray sit down and tell me what is the matter.”
“It’s awful, Mr. Holmes—simply awful I wonder my hair isn’tgray. Godfrey Staunton—you’ve heard of him, of course? He’ssimply the hinge that the whole team turns on. I’d rather sparetwo from the pack, and have Godfrey for my three-quarter line.
Whether it’s passing, or tackling, or dribbling, there’s no oneto touch him, and then, he’s got the head, and can hold us alltogether. What am I to do? That’s what I ask you, Mr. Holmes.
There’s Moorhouse, first reserve, but he is trained as a half, andhe always edges right in on to the scrum instead of keeping outon the touchline. He’s a fine place-kick, it’s true, but then hehas no judgment, and he can’t sprint for nuts. Why, Morton orJohnson, the Oxford fliers, could romp round him. Stevenson isfast enough, but he couldn’t drop from the twenty-five line, and athree-quarter who can’t either punt or drop isn’t worth a place forpace alone. No, Mr. Holmes, we are done unless you can help meto find Godfrey Staunton.”
