In town the earliest risers were just beginning to look sleepilyfrom their windows as we drove through the streets of the Surreyside. Passing down the Waterloo Bridge Road we crossed over theriver， and dashing up Wellington Street wheeled sharply to theright and found ourselves in Bow Street. Sherlock Holmes was wellknown to the force， and the two constables at the door salutedhim. One of them held the horse’s head while the other led us in.
“Who is on duty？” asked Holmes.
“Inspector Bradstreet， sir.”
“Ah， Bradstreet， how are you？” A tall， stout official had comedown the stone-flagged passage， in a peaked cap and froggedjacket. “I wish to have a quiet word with you， Bradstreet.”
“Certainly， Mr. Holmes. Step into my room here.”
It was a small， office-like room， with a huge ledger upon thetable， and a telephone projecting from the wall. The inspector satdown at his desk.
“What can I do for you， Mr. Holmes？”
“I called about that beggarman， Boone—the one who wascharged with being concerned in the disappearance of Mr. NevilleSt. Clair， of Lee.”
“Yes. He was brought up and remanded for further inquiries.”
“So I heard. You have him here？”
“In the cells.”
“Is he quiet？”
“Oh， he gives no trouble. But he is a dirty scoundrel.”
“Dirty？”
“Yes， it is all we can do to make him wash his hands， and his faceis as black as a tinker’s. Well， when once his case has been settled，he will have a regular prison bath； and I think， if you saw him， youwould agree with me that he needed it.”
“I should like to see him very much.”
“Would you？ That is easily done. Come this way. You can leaveyour bag.”
“No， I think that I’ll take it.”
“Very good. Come this way， if you please.” He led us down apassage， opened a barred door， passed down a winding stair， andbrought us to a whitewashed corridor with a line of doors on eachside.
“The third on the right is his，” said the inspector. “Here it is！”
He quietly shot back a panel in the upper part of the door andglanced through.
“He is asleep，” said he. “You can see him very well.”
We both put our eyes to the grating. The prisoner lay with hisface towards us， in a very deep sleep， breathing slowly and heavily.
He was a middle-sized man， coarsely clad as became his calling，with a coloured shirt protruding through the rent in his tatteredcoat. He was， as the inspector had said， extremely dirty， but thegrime which covered his face could not conceal its repulsiveugliness. A broad wheal from an old scar ran right across it fromeye to chin， and by its contraction had turned up one side of theupper lip， so that three teeth were exposed in a perpetual snarl. Ashock of very bright red hair grew low over his eyes and forehead.
“He’s a beauty， isn’t he？” said the inspector.
“He certainly needs a wash，” remarked Holmes. “I had an ideathat he might， and I took the liberty of bringing the tools withme.” He opened the Gladstone bag as he spoke， and took out， tomy astonishment， a very large bath-sponge.
“He！ he！ You are a funny one，” chuckled the inspector.
“Now， if you will have the great goodness to open that doorvery quietly， we will soon make him cut a much more respectablefigure.”
“Well， I don’t know why not，” said the inspector. “He doesn’tlook a credit to the Bow Street cells， does he？” He slipped his keyinto the lock， and we all very quietly entered the cell. The sleeperhalf turned， and then settled down once more into a deep slumber.
Holmes stooped to the water-jug， moistened his sponge， and thenrubbed it twice vigorously across and down the prisoner’s face.
“Let me introduce you，” he shouted， “to Mr. Neville St. Clair， ofLee， in the county of Kent.”
Never in my life have I seen such a sight. The man’s face peeledoff under the sponge like the bark from a tree. Gone was thecoarse brown tint！ Gone， too， was the horrid scar which hadseamed it across， and the twisted lip which had given the repulsivesneer to the face！ A twitch brought away the tangled red hair，and there， sitting up in his bed， was a pale， sad-faced， refinedlookingman， black-haired and smooth-skinned， rubbing his eyesand staring about him with sleepy bewilderment. Then suddenlyrealising the exposure， he broke into a scream and threw himselfdown with his face to the pillow.
“Great heavens！” cried the inspector， “it is， indeed， the missingman. I know him from the photograph.”
The prisoner turned with the reckless air of a man whoabandons himself to his destiny. “Be it so，” said he. “And pray whatam I charged with？”
“With making away with Mr. Neville St. ——Oh， come， youcan’t be charged with that unless they make a case of attemptedsuicide of it，” said the inspector with a grin. “Well， I have beentwenty-seven years in the force， but this really takes the cake.”
“If I am Mr. Neville St. Clair， then it is obvious that no crimehas been committed， and that， therefore， I am illegally detained.”
“No crime， but a very great error has been committed，” saidHolmes. “You would have done better to have trusted your wife.”
“It was not the wife； it was the children，” groaned the prisoner.
“God help me， I would not have them ashamed of their father. MyGod！ What an exposure！ What can I do？”
Sherlock Holmes sat down beside him on the couch and pattedhim kindly on the shoulder.
“If you leave it to a court of law to clear the matter up，” said he，“of course you can hardly avoid publicity. On the other hand， ifyou convince the police authorities that there is no possible caseagainst you， I do not know that there is any reason that the detailsshould find their way into the papers. Inspector Bradstreet would，I am sure， make notes upon anything which you might tell us andsubmit it to the proper authorities. The case would then never gointo court at all.”
“God bless you！” cried the prisoner passionately. “I would haveendured imprisonment， ay， even execution， rather than have leftmy miserable secret as a family blot to my children.
