that there was nothing which you could do which I had not already done. Why,

bless my soul! here is her carriage at the door.”


He had hardly spoken before there rushed into the room one of the most lovely

young women that I have ever seen in my life. Her violet eyes shining, her lips

parted, a pink flush upon her cheeks, all thought of her natural reserve lost

in her overpowering excitement and concern.


“Oh, Mr. Sherlock Holmes!” she cried, glancing from one to the

other of us, and finally, with a woman’s quick intuition, fastening upon

my companion, “I am so glad that you have come. I have driven down to

tell you so. I know that James didn’t do it. I know it, and I want you to

start upon your work knowing it, too. Never let yourself doubt upon that point.

We have known each other since we were little children, and I know his faults

as no one else does; but he is too tender-hearted to hurt a fly. Such a charge

is absurd to anyone who really knows him.”


“I hope we may clear him, Miss Turner,” said Sherlock Holmes.

“You may rely upon my doing all that I can.”


“But you have read the evidence. You have formed some conclusion? Do you

not see some loophole, some flaw? Do you not yourself think that he is

innocent?”


“I think that it is very probable.”


“There, now!” she cried, throwing back her head and looking

defiantly at Lestrade. “You hear! He gives me hopes.”


Lestrade shrugged his shoulders. “I am afraid that my colleague has been

a little quick in forming his conclusions,” he said.


“But he is right. Oh! I know that he is right. James never did it. And

about his quarrel with his father, I am sure that the reason why he would not

speak about it to the coroner was because I was concerned in it.”


“In what way?” asked Holmes.


“It is no time for me to hide anything. James and his father had many

disagreements about me. Mr. McCarthy was very anxious that there should be a