“If the fellow did not want the hue and cry raised over him， onewould imagine that he would have returned and remained at thehotel as an inoffensive tourist. As it is， he must know that hewill be reported to the police by the hotel manager and that hisdisappearance will be connected with the murder.”
“So one would imagine. Still， he has been justified of his wisdomup to date， at any rate， since he has not been taken. But hisdescription—what of that？”
MacDonald referred to his notebook. “Here we have it so faras they could give it. They don’t seem to have taken any veryparticular stock of him； but still the porter， the clerk， and thechambermaid are all agreed that this about covers the points. Hewas a man about five foot nine in height， fifty or so years of age，his hair slightly grizzled， a grayish moustache， a curved nose， and aface which all of them described as fierce and forbidding.”
“Well， bar the expression， that might almost be a description ofDouglas himself，” said Holmes. “He is just over fifty， with grizzledhair and moustache， and about the same height. Did you getanything else？”
“He was dressed in a heavy gray suit with a reefer jacket， and hewore a short yellow overcoat and a soft cap.”
“What about the shotgun？”
“It is less than two feet long. It could very well have fitted intohis valise. He could have carried it inside his overcoat withoutdifficulty.”
“And how do you consider that all this bears upon the generalcase？”
“Well， Mr. Holmes，” said MacDonald， “when we have got ourman—and you may be sure that I had his description on the wireswithin five minutes of hearing it—we shall be better able to judge.
But， even as it stands， we have surely gone a long way. We knowthat an American calling himself Hargrave came to TunbridgeWells two days ago with bicycle and valise. In the latter was asawed-off shotgun； so he came with the deliberate purpose ofcrime. Yesterday morning he set off for this place on his bicycle，with his gun concealed in his overcoat. No one saw him arrive， sofar as we can learn； but he need not pass through the village toreach the park gates， and there are many cyclists upon the road.
Presumably he at once concealed his cycle among the laurelswhere it was found， and possibly lurked there himself， with his eyeon the house， waiting for Mr. Douglas to come out. The shotgun isa strange weapon to use inside a house； but he had intended to useit outside， and there it has very obvious advantages， as it would beimpossible to miss with it， and the sound of shots is so commonin an English sporting neighbourhood that no particular noticewould be taken.”
“That is all very clear，” said Holmes.
“Well， Mr. Douglas did not appear. What was he to do next？ Heleft his bicycle and approached the house in the twilight. He foundthe bridge down and no one about. He took his chance， intending，no doubt， to make some excuse if he met anyone. He met no one.
He slipped into the first room that he saw， and concealed himselfbehind the curtain. Thence he could see the drawbridge go up， andhe knew that his only escape was through the moat. He waiteduntil quarter-past eleven， when Mr. Douglas upon his usual nightlyround came into the room. He shot him and escaped， as arranged.
He was aware that the bicycle would be described by the hotelpeople and be a clue against him； so he left it there and made hisway by some other means to London or to some safe hiding placewhich he had already arranged. How is that， Mr. Holmes？”
“Well， Mr. Mac， it is very good and very clear so far as it goes.
That is your end of the story. My end is that the crime wascommitted half an hour earlier than reported； that Mrs. Douglasand Barker are both in a conspiracy to conceal something； thatthey aided the murderer’s escape—or at least that they reachedthe room before he escaped—and that they fabricated evidence ofhis escape through the window， whereas in all probability they hadthemselves let him go by lowering the bridge. That’s my reading ofthe first half.”
The two detectives shook their heads.
“Well， Mr. Holmes， if this is true， we only tumble out of onemystery into another，” said the London inspector.
“And in some ways a worse one，” added White Mason. “Thelady has never been in America in all her life. What possibleconnection could she have with an American assassin which wouldcause her to shelter him？”
“I freely admit the difficulties，” said Holmes. “I propose to makea little investigation of my own to-night， and it is just possible thatit may contribute something to the common cause.”
“Can we help you， Mr. Holmes？”
“No， no！ Darkness and Dr. Watson’s umbrella—my wants aresimple. And Ames， the faithful Ames， no doubt he will stretch apoint for me. All my lines of thought lead me back invariably tothe one basic question—why should an athletic man develop hisframe upon so unnatural an instrument as a single dumb-bell？”
It was late that night when Holmes returned from his solitaryexcursion. We slept in a double-bedded room， which was the bestthat the little country inn could do for us. I was already asleepwhen I was partly awakened by his entrance.
“Well， Holmes，” I murmured， “have you found anything out？”
He stood beside me in silence， his candle in his hand. Then thetall， lean figure inclined towards me. “I say， Watson，” he whispered，“would you be afraid to sleep in the same room with a lunatic， aman with softening of the brain， an idiot whose mind has lost itsgrip？”
“Not in the least，” I answered in astonishment.
“Ah， that’s lucky，” he said， and not another word would he utterthat night.
The Solution
Next morning， after breakfast， we found Inspector MacDonaldand White Mason seated in close consultation in the small parlourof the local police sergeant. On the table in front of them werepiled a number of letters and telegrams， which they were carefullysorting and docketing. Three had been placed on one side.
“Still on the track of the elusive bicyclist？” Holmes askedcheerfully. “What is the latest news of the ruffian？”
