to myself. My clothes were all sodden with dew, and my coat-sleeve was drenched

with blood from my wounded thumb. The smarting of it recalled in an instant all

the particulars of my night’s adventure, and I sprang to my feet with the

feeling that I might hardly yet be safe from my pursuers. But to my

astonishment, when I came to look round me, neither house nor garden were to be

seen. I had been lying in an angle of the hedge close by the highroad, and just

a little lower down was a long building, which proved, upon my approaching it,

to be the very station at which I had arrived upon the previous night. Were it

not for the ugly wound upon my hand, all that had passed during those dreadful

hours might have been an evil dream.


“Half dazed, I went into the station and asked about the morning train.

There would be one to Reading in less than an hour. The same porter was on

duty, I found, as had been there when I arrived. I inquired of him whether he

had ever heard of Colonel Lysander Stark. The name was strange to him. Had he

observed a carriage the night before waiting for me? No, he had not. Was there

a police-station anywhere near? There was one about three miles off.


“It was too far for me to go, weak and ill as I was. I determined to wait

until I got back to town before telling my story to the police. It was a little

past six when I arrived, so I went first to have my wound dressed, and then the

doctor was kind enough to bring me along here. I put the case into your hands

and shall do exactly what you advise.”


We both sat in silence for some little time after listening to this

extraordinary narrative. Then Sherlock Holmes pulled down from the shelf one of

the ponderous commonplace books in which he placed his cuttings.


“Here is an advertisement which will interest you,” said he.

“It appeared in all the papers about a year ago. Listen to this:

‘Lost, on the 9th inst., Mr. Jeremiah Hayling, aged twenty-six, a