“The man was seen，” continued Lestrade. “A milk boy， passing onhis way to the dairy， happened to walk down the lane which leadsfrom the mews at the back of the hotel. He noticed that a ladder，which usually lay there， was raised against one of the windows ofthe second floor， which was wide open. After passing， he lookedback and saw a man descend the ladder. He came down so quietlyand openly that the boy imagined him to be some carpenter orjoiner at work in the hotel. He took no particular notice of him，beyond thinking in his own mind that it was early for him to be atwork. He has an impression that the man was tall， had a reddishface， and was dressed in a long， brownish coat. He must havestayed in the room some little time after the murder， for we foundblood-stained water in the basin， where he had washed his hands，and marks on the sheets where he had deliberately wiped hisknife.”
I glanced at Holmes on hearing the description of the murderer，which tallied so exactly with his own. There was， however， notrace of exultation or satisfaction upon his face.
“Did you find nothing in the room which could furnish a clue tothe murderer？” he asked.
“Nothing. Stangerson had Drebber’s purse in his pocket， butit seems that this was usual， as he did all the paying. There waseighty-odd pounds in it， but nothing had been taken. Whateverthe motives of these extraordinary crimes， robbery is certainlynot one of them. There were no papers or memoranda in themurdered man’s pocket， except a single telegram， dated fromCleveland about a month ago， and containing the words， ‘J. H. isin Europe.’ There was no name appended to this message.”
“And there was nothing else？” Holmes asked.
“Nothing of any importance. The man’s novel， with which hehad read himself to sleep， was lying upon the bed， and his pipe wason a chair beside him. There was a glass of water on the table， andon the window-sill a small chip ointment box containing a coupleof pills.”
Sherlock Holmes sprang from his chair with an exclamation ofdelight.
“The last link，” he cried， exultantly. “My case is complete.”
The two detectives stared at him in amazement.
“I have now in my hands，” my companion said， confidently， “allthe threads which have formed such a tangle. There are， of course，details to be filled in， but I am as certain of all the main facts，from the time that Drebber parted from Stangerson at the station，up to the discovery of the body of the latter， as if I had seen themwith my own eyes. I will give you a proof of my knowledge. Couldyou lay your hand upon those pills？”
“I have them，” said Lestrade， producing a small white box； “Itook them and the purse and the telegram， intending to have themput in a place of safety at the Police Station. It was the merestchance my taking these pills， for I am bound to say that I do notattach any importance to them.”
“Give them here，” said Holmes. “Now， Doctor，” turning to me，“are those ordinary pills？”
They certainly were not. They were of a pearly gray colour，small， round， and almost transparent against the light. “From theirlightness and transparency， I should imagine that they are solublein water，” I remarked.
“Precisely so，” answered Holmes. “Now would you mind goingdown and fetching that poor little devil of a terrier which has beenbad so long， and which the landlady wanted you to put out of itspain yesterday？”
I went downstairs and carried the dog upstair in my arms. It’slaboured breathing and glazing eye showed that it was not farfrom its end. Indeed， its snow-white muzzle proclaimed that ithad already exceeded the usual term of canine existence. I placedit upon a cushion on the rug.
“I will now cut one of these pills in two，” said Holmes， anddrawing his penknife he suited the action to the word. “One halfwe return into the box for future purposes. The other half I willplace in this wineglass， in which is a teaspoonful of water. Youperceive that our friend， the Doctor， is right， and that it readilydissolves.”
“This may be very interesting，” said Lestrade， in the injuredtone of one who suspects that he is being laughed at； “I cannotsee， however， what it has to do with the death of Mr. JosephStangerson.”
“Patience， my friend， patience！ You will find in time that it haseverything to do with it. I shall now add a little milk to make themixture palatable， and on presenting it to the dog we find that helaps it up readily enough.”
As he spoke he turned the contents of the wineglass into asaucer and placed it in front of the terrier， who speedily licked itdry. Sherlock Holmes’ earnest demeanour had so far convincedus that we all sat in silence， watching the animal intently， andexpecting some startling effect. None such appeared， however.
The dog continued to lie stretched upon the cushion， breathing ina laboured way， but apparently neither the better nor the worse forits draught.
Holmes had taken out his watch， and as minute followedminute without result， an expression of the utmost chagrin anddisappointment appeared upon his features. He gnawed his lip，drummed his fingers upon the table， and showed every othersymptom of acute impatience. So great was his emotion， that I feltsincerely sorry for him， while the two detectives smiled derisively，by no means displeased at this check which he had met.
“It can’t be a coincidence，” he cried， at last springing from hischair and pacing wildly up and down the room； “it is impossiblethat it should be a mere coincidence. The very pills which Isuspected in the case of Drebber are actually found after thedeath of Stangerson. And yet they are inert. What can it mean？
