“This may interest you, Lestrade,” he remarked, holding it out.

“The murder was done with it.”


“I see no marks.”


“There are none.”


“How do you know, then?”


“The grass was growing under it. It had only lain there a few days. There

was no sign of a place whence it had been taken. It corresponds with the

injuries. There is no sign of any other weapon.”


“And the murderer?”


“Is a tall man, left-handed, limps with the right leg, wears thick-soled

shooting-boots and a grey cloak, smokes Indian cigars, uses a cigar-holder, and

carries a blunt pen-knife in his pocket. There are several other indications,

but these may be enough to aid us in our search.”


Lestrade laughed. “I am afraid that I am still a sceptic,” he said.

“Theories are all very well, but we have to deal with a hard-headed

British jury.”


“Nous verrons,” answered Holmes calmly. “You work your

own method, and I shall work mine. I shall be busy this afternoon, and shall

probably return to London by the evening train.”


“And leave your case unfinished?”


“No, finished.”


“But the mystery?”


“It is solved.”


“Who was the criminal, then?”


“The gentleman I describe.”


“But who is he?”


“Surely it would not be difficult to find out. This is not such a

populous neighbourhood.”


Lestrade shrugged his shoulders. “I am a practical man,” he said,

“and I really cannot undertake to go about the country looking for a

left-handed gentleman with a game leg. I should become the laughing-stock of

Scotland Yard.”


“All right,” said Holmes quietly. “I have given you the

chance. Here are your lodgings. Good-bye. I shall drop you a line before I

leave.”


Having left Lestrade at his rooms, we drove to our hotel, where we found lunch

upon the table. Holmes was silent and buried in thought with a pained

expression upon his face, as one who finds himself in a perplexing position.


“Look here, Watson,” he said when the cloth was cleared “just