column of smoke which streamed up from behind a small clump of trees in the

neighbourhood and hung like an immense ostrich feather over the landscape.


“A house on fire?” asked Bradstreet as the train steamed off again

on its way.


“Yes, sir!” said the station-master.


“When did it break out?”


“I hear that it was during the night, sir, but it has got worse, and the

whole place is in a blaze.”


“Whose house is it?”


“Dr. Becher’s.”


“Tell me,” broke in the engineer, “is Dr. Becher a German,

very thin, with a long, sharp nose?”


The station-master laughed heartily. “No, sir, Dr. Becher is an

Englishman, and there isn’t a man in the parish who has a better-lined

waistcoat. But he has a gentleman staying with him, a patient, as I understand,

who is a foreigner, and he looks as if a little good Berkshire beef would do

him no harm.”


The station-master had not finished his speech before we were all hastening in

the direction of the fire. The road topped a low hill, and there was a great

widespread whitewashed building in front of us, spouting fire at every chink

and window, while in the garden in front three fire-engines were vainly

striving to keep the flames under.


“That’s it!” cried Hatherley, in intense excitement.

“There is the gravel-drive, and there are the rose-bushes where I lay.

That second window is the one that I jumped from.”


“Well, at least,” said Holmes, “you have had your revenge

upon them. There can be no question that it was your oil-lamp which, when it

was crushed in the press, set fire to the wooden walls, though no doubt they

were too excited in the chase after you to observe it at the time. Now keep

your eyes open in this crowd for your friends of last night, though I very much

fear that they are a good hundred miles off by now.”


And Holmes’ fears came to be realised, for from that day to this no word

has ever been heard either of the beautiful woman, the sinister German, or the