“It is true. And yet—! Well! I wish she had been of my own station!

What a queen she would have made!” He relapsed into a moody silence,

which was not broken until we drew up in Serpentine Avenue.


The door of Briony Lodge was open, and an elderly woman stood upon the steps.

She watched us with a sardonic eye as we stepped from the brougham.


“Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I believe?” said she.


“I am Mr. Holmes,” answered my companion, looking at her with a

questioning and rather startled gaze.


“Indeed! My mistress told me that you were likely to call. She left this

morning with her husband by the 5:15 train from Charing Cross for the

Continent.”


“What!” Sherlock Holmes staggered back, white with chagrin and

surprise. “Do you mean that she has left England?”


“Never to return.”


“And the papers?” asked the King hoarsely. “All is

lost.”


“We shall see.” He pushed past the servant and rushed into the

drawing-room, followed by the King and myself. The furniture was scattered

about in every direction, with dismantled shelves and open drawers, as if the

lady had hurriedly ransacked them before her flight. Holmes rushed at the

bell-pull, tore back a small sliding shutter, and, plunging in his hand, pulled

out a photograph and a letter. The photograph was of Irene Adler herself in

evening dress, the letter was superscribed to “Sherlock Holmes, Esq. To

be left till called for.” My friend tore it open, and we all three read

it together. It was dated at midnight of the preceding night and ran in this

way:


“MY DEAR MR. SHERLOCK HOLMES,—You really did it very well. You took

me in completely. Until after the alarm of fire, I had not a suspicion. But

then, when I found how I had betrayed myself, I began to think. I had been

warned against you months ago. I had been told that, if the King employed an

agent, it would certainly be you. And your address had been given me. Yet, with