That he should come to me for help, and that I should send him away to his

death—!” He sprang from his chair and paced about the room in

uncontrollable agitation, with a flush upon his sallow cheeks and a nervous

clasping and unclasping of his long thin hands.


“They must be cunning devils,” he exclaimed at last. “How

could they have decoyed him down there? The Embankment is not on the direct

line to the station. The bridge, no doubt, was too crowded, even on such a

night, for their purpose. Well, Watson, we shall see who will win in the long

run. I am going out now!”


“To the police?”


“No; I shall be my own police. When I have spun the web they may take the

flies, but not before.”


All day I was engaged in my professional work, and it was late in the evening

before I returned to Baker Street. Sherlock Holmes had not come back yet. It

was nearly ten o’clock before he entered, looking pale and worn. He

walked up to the sideboard, and tearing a piece from the loaf he devoured it

voraciously, washing it down with a long draught of water.


“You are hungry,” I remarked.


“Starving. It had escaped my memory. I have had nothing since

breakfast.”


“Nothing?”


“Not a bite. I had no time to think of it.”


“And how have you succeeded?”


“Well.”


“You have a clue?”


“I have them in the hollow of my hand. Young Openshaw shall not long

remain unavenged. Why, Watson, let us put their own devilish trade-mark upon

them. It is well thought of!”


“What do you mean?”


He took an orange from the cupboard, and tearing it to pieces he squeezed out

the pips upon the table. Of these he took five and thrust them into an

envelope. On the inside of the flap he wrote “S. H. for J. O.” Then

he sealed it and addressed it to “Captain James Calhoun, Barque Lone

Star, Savannah, Georgia.”


“That will await him when he enters port,” said he, chuckling.

“It may give him a sleepless night. He will find it as sure a precursor