burning oil and heated metal. Someone in the next room had lit a dark-lantern.

I heard a gentle sound of movement, and then all was silent once more, though

the smell grew stronger. For half an hour I sat with straining ears. Then

suddenly another sound became audible—a very gentle, soothing sound, like

that of a small jet of steam escaping continually from a kettle. The instant

that we heard it, Holmes sprang from the bed, struck a match, and lashed

furiously with his cane at the bell-pull.


“You see it, Watson?” he yelled. “You see it?”


But I saw nothing. At the moment when Holmes struck the light I heard a low,

clear whistle, but the sudden glare flashing into my weary eyes made it

impossible for me to tell what it was at which my friend lashed so savagely. I

could, however, see that his face was deadly pale and filled with horror and

loathing. He had ceased to strike and was gazing up at the ventilator when

suddenly there broke from the silence of the night the most horrible cry to

which I have ever listened. It swelled up louder and louder, a hoarse yell of

pain and fear and anger all mingled in the one dreadful shriek. They say that

away down in the village, and even in the distant parsonage, that cry raised

the sleepers from their beds. It struck cold to our hearts, and I stood gazing

at Holmes, and he at me, until the last echoes of it had died away into the

silence from which it rose.


“What can it mean?” I gasped.


“It means that it is all over,” Holmes answered. “And

perhaps, after all, it is for the best. Take your pistol, and we will enter Dr.

Roylott’s room.”


With a grave face he lit the lamp and led the way down the corridor. Twice he

struck at the chamber door without any reply from within. Then he turned the

handle and entered, I at his heels, with the cocked pistol in my hand.


It was a singular sight which met our eyes. On the table stood a dark-lantern