“You want to go home, no doubt, Doctor,” he remarked as we emerged.


“Yes, it would be as well.”


“And I have some business to do which will take some hours. This business

at Coburg Square is serious.”


“Why serious?”


“A considerable crime is in contemplation. I have every reason to believe

that we shall be in time to stop it. But to-day being Saturday rather

complicates matters. I shall want your help to-night.”


“At what time?”


“Ten will be early enough.”


“I shall be at Baker Street at ten.”


“Very well. And, I say, Doctor, there may be some little danger, so

kindly put your army revolver in your pocket.” He waved his hand, turned

on his heel, and disappeared in an instant among the crowd.


I trust that I am not more dense than my neighbours, but I was always oppressed

with a sense of my own stupidity in my dealings with Sherlock Holmes. Here I

had heard what he had heard, I had seen what he had seen, and yet from his

words it was evident that he saw clearly not only what had happened but what

was about to happen, while to me the whole business was still confused and

grotesque. As I drove home to my house in Kensington I thought over it all,

from the extraordinary story of the red-headed copier of the

Encyclopædia down to the visit to Saxe-Coburg Square, and the ominous

words with which he had parted from me. What was this nocturnal expedition, and

why should I go armed? Where were we going, and what were we to do? I had the

hint from Holmes that this smooth-faced pawnbroker’s assistant was a

formidable man—a man who might play a deep game. I tried to puzzle it

out, but gave it up in despair and set the matter aside until night should

bring an explanation.


It was a quarter-past nine when I started from home and made my way across the

Park, and so through Oxford Street to Baker Street. Two hansoms were standing

at the door, and as I entered the passage I heard the sound of voices from