“‘Well,’ said I, ‘the gentleman at No. 4.’


“‘What, the red-headed man?’


“‘Yes.’


“‘Oh,’ said he, ‘his name was William Morris. He

was a solicitor and was using my room as a temporary convenience until his new

premises were ready. He moved out yesterday.’


“‘Where could I find him?’


“‘Oh, at his new offices. He did tell me the address. Yes, 17

King Edward Street, near St. Paul’s.’


“I started off, Mr. Holmes, but when I got to that address it was a

manufactory of artificial knee-caps, and no one in it had ever heard of either

Mr. William Morris or Mr. Duncan Ross.”


“And what did you do then?” asked Holmes.


“I went home to Saxe-Coburg Square, and I took the advice of my

assistant. But he could not help me in any way. He could only say that if I

waited I should hear by post. But that was not quite good enough, Mr. Holmes. I

did not wish to lose such a place without a struggle, so, as I had heard that

you were good enough to give advice to poor folk who were in need of it, I came

right away to you.”


“And you did very wisely,” said Holmes. “Your case is an

exceedingly remarkable one, and I shall be happy to look into it. From what you

have told me I think that it is possible that graver issues hang from it than

might at first sight appear.”


“Grave enough!” said Mr. Jabez Wilson. “Why, I have lost four

pound a week.”


“As far as you are personally concerned,” remarked Holmes, “I

do not see that you have any grievance against this extraordinary league. On

the contrary, you are, as I understand, richer by some £ 30, to say nothing of

the minute knowledge which you have gained on every subject which comes under

the letter A. You have lost nothing by them.”


“No, sir. But I want to find out about them, and who they are, and what

their object was in playing this prank—if it was a prank—upon me.

It was a pretty expensive joke for them, for it cost them two and thirty

pounds.”